


The Road To Corruption

by pasiphile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, holmes/moran/moriarty in a weird by-proxy way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2019-11-14 09:04:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 102,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18049577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: After Reichenbach, not Mycroft but someone else entirely rescues Sherlock from his Serbian dungeon; someone with his own reasons for keeping Sherlock alive (at least for the moment) and who's willing to do whatever it takes to find what he's looking for...





	1. Aniste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NaughtyPip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaughtyPip/gifts).



> A big heartfelt thank you to holyfant & koni for betaing at different stages of the process and pointing out the dissatisfying ending and the accidentally unhygienic sex respectively.  
> And, of course, thank you to fivepipsandflowers, for the unending patience in waiting for a fic that should've been finished two and a half years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for explicit violence and torture in this one.

Pain is annoying.

It messes with his thought processes, keeps loudly interfering when he needs his attention for other things. It’s pointless, he _knows_ there’s damage happening, there is no need to keep reminding him of th-

The guard hits him again and Sherlock gasps for air.

His shoulders feels like they’re being slowly pulled from their sockets. His wrists are chafed open, blood slowly dripping down his forearms. His ribs are on fire and he can’t concentrate, can’t _think_  -

The lack of sleep isn’t helping either.

The guard is saying something about that. Sherlock tries to look up. Tattoo, on his biceps, a deep scar on his wrist, that’s – that’s something, right?

He blinks, tries to think of words, then tries to translate, but before he can  it’s –

There’s more pain. He spits blood onto the floor, which seems to dance. Insomnia-induced hallucinations.

God, he wants out.

He mutters something. The guards leans over him, grabs his hair and pulls his head up. Sherlock tells him something – not sure what, at this point - _žena, varala, afera -_ but it seems to enrage him. He raises his hand to hit, Sherlock braces himself –

But the hit doesn’t come.

He blinks.

The guard is lying crumpled on the ground. And, crouched over him – another guard, the one who came in about an hour ago and then sat at the back doing nothing but watch. That one, must have attacked –

The door bursts open, two other men coming in. Things happen in a blur of flailing limbs and moving bodies, but at the end of it there are three dead men on the ground.

Sherlock stares at them. One of them is bleeding sluggishly from his throat. The other one is face-down, unmoving. And the third is lying with his head at an unnatural angle. 

The one survivor – the watching stranger, the one who seems to be trying to rescue him – snatches keys from one of the dead guards’ bodies, then strides over to Sherlock.  He quickly unlocks one handcuff. The sudden pressure falling away almost has Sherlock hitting the floor; the only thing stopping him is the man quickly throwing his arm around Sherlock’s chest, pulling him close.

“You,” he says in Sherlock’s ear, voice a low hoarse scrape, “are coming with me.” 

***

The world around him blurs. The pain of the beating is coursing through him, overtaking everything else, and as he’s forced to move - dragged along by his bruised arm, staggering behind on stiffened bloody legs – it gets so bad his vision tilts and fades, coloured spots overlaying the grey-and-brown of the prison.

Then things go sharp again and he can see blood streaked across a wall, hear gunshots and shouting and doors clanging shut – and the world shifts again, higher – no, it’s him, he’s pushed down, behind something, and the light goes bright again –

And a sharp stab of pain pulls him back. His arm, he’s held by his arm again, dragged along the corridor. He can hear a groan, somewhere close, smell blood on the air. His shoulder hurts so much it’s difficult to concentrate, and he keeps tripping, legs refusing to cooperate after hours - days? - of hanging chained from a ceiling and _god_ , this hurts –

And light.

For a moment he thinks he blacked out again. Then his senses kick in: wind on his face, warmth, the scent of woods and grass.

They’re out.

His knees buckle. Something supports him, steady across his back, guiding him somewhere, down again, a hand on the back of his neck and – and that’s a car, he’s in a car, darker, blocking out the sunlight, but going darker still and his head leans back on something soft and he’s out he’s out he’s –

Gone.

***

He wakes up with his hands tied again.

He doesn’t notice until he tries to scratch his nose and something pulls against his wrist, though. These restraints are almost comfortable, felt-lined, not tight, with enough wriggle room for his circulation not to be cut off.

Not enough room to actually _do_ something, unfortunately.

“Try not to move too much.”

Sherlock’s head snaps around – too quickly, his visions spins for a moment or two. Then it focuses: the man, the fake guard. His _rescuer_.

It isn’t one Mycroft’s men. He knows them, knows how to recognise them. This one isn’t one of them.

Then who the hell is he?

“That guard busted your ribcage,” the man says.

Sherlock breathes in experimentally. “Bruised,” he decides, “not broken.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He comes over with a bottle of water, and carefully supports Sherlock’s head as he drinks.

Care, yes, and a rescue, but then why the handcuffs?

The man puts the bottle away again, then runs his hands over Sherlock’s ribcage, slowly. Feeling for breaks, logical. Still Sherlock winces at the sudden, unavoidable contact.

He focuses instead on his rescuer. Late thirties, athletic, British. He looks tired. More than tired, exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that goes beyond the physical – someone who’s been under a lot of stress for a very long time.

“Right, you’re fine.” The man straightens up again. “Rest, that’s all you need. Feared you were concussed there for a moment.”

“Who are you?” Sherlock demands.

The man looks at him, not replying. He’s got very light eyes, grey that almost seems translucent in the stark light of the – ah, right, this is a hotel room, and a cheap one too.

“What are you doing this for?” Sherlock asks. “I presume you didn’t go through all this trouble just to kill me now. What is this, then? Blackmail? Are you keeping me hostage?”

The man snorts and gets up. “No.”

“Then what? Who are you selling me to, what do you – ”

“Right,” the man says, loudly, strangely irritated, “let’s get this over with, shall we? I work for Moriarty.”

There’s a moment where even the air seems to shiver with the impact of those words. Sherlock breathes through the initial shock, fights off the lingering instinctive panic, but…

“Moriarty's dead,” he says, voice surprisingly steady. “I _saw_ him die. Brain shot out, no way he could – ”

“You saw what he wanted you to see.” The man runs his hand over his face. “You think he’s dead, brilliant, leaves him in peace to do whatever the fuck he wants without the risk of being caught. That was the plan.”

“Was?”

“Sort of.” The man starts pacing. “He had to disappear, of course. No way around that. But he’d resurface, at an agreed time, in an agreed place. There were several of those, actually, just in case he couldn’t make one he’d surely be there the next time.” The man looks up. “The last one was three months ago.”

“He’s dead,” Sherlock says again, unable to accept the alternative.

The man gives a sick laugh. “Oh, I would believe you. So much. Except, I got this in the mail, about two weeks back.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, metallic – a tie pin.

“I won’t bother you with the emotional significance,” the man says, tiredly. “Suffice to say that this is, without a doubt, Moriarty’s. And that he would never share what this means to me with anyone else.”

“If he were tortured – ”

“Never.”

There’s a silence.

“So is that why you captured me?” Sherlock says, frowning. “To use me as bait, lure Moriarty into coming the open again?”

“What?” the man says, confused. “No. I saved you because I need you. Because I need your mind. I need – I need you to take this case.”

“ _What_?”

“I need you,” the man repeats between gritted teeth, “to take this case.”

“And why the _hell_ would I do that?” Sherlock sneers.

“I don’t know.” The man starts pacing again, with large, fluid steps. “I suppose I could threaten you – to kill you if you don’t, maybe. Or that I can do things to you which make that Serbian dungeon feel like a leisure centre in comparison. Or your people at home – your brother, John Watson, your housekeeper. Work for me or they’ll pay.” He pauses, throws Sherlock a look. “But honestly, I think you’re going to agree just for the thrill of it.”

“Do you?” Sherlock says, coolly. 

“If what he told me is true?” The man tilts his head, curious. “Then, yes.”

“What did he tell you?”

More silence, and the man’s eyes, cold and grey, almost colourless…

“Clients give me their names,” Sherlock says.

“Moran.” A faint smile. “Sebastian.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: The next two chapters will be going up this week, and after that I'll try to keep to a weekly schedule - which should be doable, given that the fic itself is already finished and just needs some minor editing before being post-ready.
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you'll enjoy the rest!


	2. Belgrade

Holmes is still sleeping when Sebastian gets back from the shops.

He drops the bags and sits down heavily, then pulls out the tie pin from his pocket, presses the blunt tip into the flesh of his thumb.

Jim owned Sebastian’s dog tags. If those had been sent, he wouldn’t have been convinced – after all, the meaning of those were obvious. Anyone could’ve nicked those tags from Jim’s inside pocket, pried them from his cold dead hands, sent them on.

But this? Jim has masses of tie pins, shinier more expensive ones and subtle more subdued ones. Among all those, this one doesn’t stand out at all. Just plain silver, and a fox’s head at the end. Nothing extraordinary.

The only reason why anyone would know why exactly  _this_ one is so important, is if Jim told them . And that –

That’s impossible.

On the bed, Holmes stirs.He’s already starting to look better - courtesy of another twenty-odd hours of sleep -  but he’s still pale, gaunt, a little shaky... 

Torture does leave is marks.

The chains around the bed rails clank as Holmes tries to move his wrists. “Are these really necessary?” he asks, voice dripping with contempt.

“Necessary? No.” Sebastian slips the pin back into his pocket. “But they make my job a lot easier.”

“Your  _job_?” Holmes tries to sit up a little straighter. “What’s that then, guard? Am I your prisoner? I thought I was your detective. Make up your mind, will you?”

“Both.” Sebastian stands up. “Captive sleuth-for-hire. Are you hungry?”

“What?” Holmes asks, confused.

“Food. Want some?”

“Will you untie my hands?”

“Will you try to escape?”

They stare each other out. Holmes’ eyes are a very light blue, the polar opposite of Jim’s dark, hungry eyes.

Holmes shakes his head. “No. I’m too weakened to have a chance of escaping, wouldn’t be worth the bother.”

“Well, then.” Sebastian fishes the keys from his inside pocket and goes over to Holmes. His skin is cold to the touch, and still unhealthily pale, especially in contrast with Sebastian’s tanned hands.

As soon as the cuffs are off Holmes pulls away and sits up, but he stops moving almost immediately, face twisting.

Bruised ribs. Stings like a bitch.

“Easy,” Sebastian says as he gets up again. “You’ve been tortured, you need time to recover.”

Holmes snorts. “I’d hardly call that torture.”

“You  _fainted_ ,” Sebastian points out. “Several times.”

Holmes doesn’t reply – probably doesn’t like being reminded of his weaknesses. He slowly gets up, then limps to the table and sits down, holding his side and wincing. It seems to be about as much annoyance at the pain as genuine suffering, something that in its way looks very familiar.

It’s startling, that similarity. And it’s not the first time, either; the quick sweep-and-assess he’d gotten when Holmes had just woken up had been deeply unnerving, given that the only difference there seemed to be were the blue eyes instead of brown doing the assessing.

 _You’re me_.

Sebastian shakes his head, annoyed. There might be similarities, but Holmes is also radically different from Jim in some very significant ways. He shouldn’t lose sight of that.

“So,” Holmes says in between bites. “Information.”

“Sorry?”

Holmes gives him a sharp, mocking smile. “Ah, sorry, you’re new to this. Let me explain how this works. You, the client, give me information, I start the case based on that.”

“You mean you want to interrogate me.”

“Call it what you want.” Holmes returns to his food. “I need data to work with.”

“I’ll give you data.” Sebastian sits up and gets his wallet, checking the amount of money still there. “I’m taking you to the last place he was supposed to show.”

“Where?”

“Lausanne.”

“Switzerland? Why there?”

“Don’t know.” Sebastian shrugs. “He has safehouses and dead drops all over the world.”

Holmes hums, frowning. Thinking. “Has he done this before?”

“Done what?”

“Running and turning back up again,” Holmes says. He looks up at Sebastian.

And there, there it is, that oddly  _hungry_ look, right on Holmes’ face, clear as day. Identical to the look that had been on Jim’s face when he’d interrogated Sebastian after he’d broken into 221B, trying to find out everything he could about Holmes. Fascination bordering on the obsessive.

“I’m not telling you that,” Sebastian says tersely.

“I told you, I need da-”

“And you’ll get it. But only when it’s relevant.”

“And you get to decide what’s relevant and what’s not?”

 _“Yes_.”

Holmes glares at him for a few moments. Then he sighs and leans back in his chair, childlike. “Fine. Lausanne. That means we’re taking a plane?”

“Yes.” Sebastian goes over to his bag and pulls out the clothes he bought. “Our cover is going to be rendition. I’m an agent for Interpol, you’re a criminal who ran all the way across Europe in an attempt to escape.”

“And you think I’d cooperate with this why?”

Sebastian looks over his shoulder. “You don’t have to. You can say what you want, no one will believe you if you’re in handcuffs.”

“Speaking from experience?” Holmes asks, sharply.

Sebastian opens his mouth, a little taken aback.

Then he shakes his head. “Most of my experience with handcuffs happened in a very different context,” he says, and then has the satisfaction of seeing Holmes first look confused, then disturbed.

Sebastian smirks. “Come on, bathroom break and get dressed. We’re leaving in half an hour.”

***

Holmes doesn’t like the clothes Sebastian bought him.

It’s obvious, from the way he keeps pulling his sleeves, picking at the hem. From what Sebastian has seen of Holmes while he was in London, it’s usually just suits for him, no ties, but never casual stuff, never just jeans and a T-shirt.

So maybe it’s petty sadism that made Sebastian buy him hoodies and track bottoms.

Or maybe it’s curiosity. Jim, after all, also prefers suits, but in his downtime he often wears – well, Sebastian’s clothes, mostly. He likes to have room to move in, hang all over the furniture without feeling constricted. But, evidently, Holmes is different.

The person in front of them moves away from the desk and the airline girl transfers her attention to them, looking from Sebastian – professional, cool, slightly impatient – to Holmes – surly, aggressive, and in handcuffs.

“Do I have to call security to accompany you?” she asks, slightly hesitantly.

“No need,” Sebastian says, with a faint smile. “I’ve got him under control.”

Holmes scowls at him.

She hands the tickets over. Sebastian puts them in his inside pocket, then grabs Holmes roughly by the shoulder to lead him away. Holmes flinches at the touch, an automatic instinctive reaction rather than an actual attempt to pull away. Sebastian carefully stores that info away.

Holmes looks up, eyes tracking something. Sebastian follows his gaze – cameras, obviously.

“Don’t worry,” Sebastian says. “I’m taking care of them.”

Holmes turns his shard-of-ice eyes to him. “You think that will be enough?” he asks. “You do realise that Mycroft has agents everywhere?”

“Yes,” Sebastian says. “Think it’s the first time I had to dodge Mycroft Holmes’ agents?”

“Think you’re good enough to dodge them all?”

“Let’s put it this way,” Sebastian says, amused. “Have you ever heard your brother mention my existence?”

Holmes opens his mouth, closes it again.

“I suppose he could, theoretically, know, and simply not have told you, but… Well, even by your arsehole-of-a-brother’s standards that’s pretty low, isn’t it? Not to mention dangerous.”

Holmes frowns, obviously considering all the implications.

Sebastian leaves him be, staying silent and gently steering him through the crowds of tourists and businessmen.

***

The constant buzz of the plan’s engine is trying to lull him to sleep.

Sebastian can feel his eyes drooping. It’s not a very good idea to drift off now, though. Holmes may be chained to his seat, but that doesn’t mean he’s incapacitated. He’s a wily bastard.

But the seat is comfortable, and the engine noise blocks out all other sounds, and it’s been ages since he last had a full night of sleep…

He jerks up, blinks. Almost, Christ, is he that desperate for a nap? He stretches in an attempt to force his body to wakefulness, cracks his neck –

\- and finds Holmes staring at him.

“What?” Sebastian asks.

“I suppose you’re enjoying this?”

“What’s that?”

Holmes yanks his wrist against the cuff. “This.”

“A little,” Sebastian says, calmly. “Not that much. You’re not that interesting to me.”

Holmes huffs.

“Don’t believe me?” Sebastian asks.

“I’ve been called a lot of things, but  _boring_ isn’t one of them.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” Sebastian leans back, eyes closing again. “Compared to Jim, you’re boring as dishwater.”

He doesn’t have to see to notice Holmes stiffen up, as if in shock.

Sebastian smiles, eyes still closed.

It’s a bit of a lie, though. Holmes  _is_ interesting, not just because of Jim’s obsession with him but because of who he is, his personality, his mind, which supposedly works just like Jim’s does. In a way, it feels a bit like meeting someone’s family, clues and connections and intimacies he isn’t and never can be a part of – of course he’s fucking interested, anything regarding Jim interests him.

Not that Holmes comes close to being anywhere near as fascinating as Jim, of course.

“But I’m still useful to you,” Holmes says, after a moment.

“Obviously.” Sebastian cracks one eye open and gives Holmes’ affronted face a sweet smile. “If you weren’t, you would’ve been six feet underground by now.”

Holmes makes a derisive sound and throws himself back into the seat, much like an angry toddler would. Sebastian, grinning, slides down a little in his seat.

Too easy, honestly.

“He’s dead,” Holmes says after a few moments. “You’re delusional. He has to be dead.”

“If you’re so sure of that, why are you here?”

“Curiosity.” He glares at Sebastian. “Do you really think I believe this story? Moriarty’s confidante, hunting him across Europe? Moriarty staying under the radar for over two years? It’s absurd.”

“And why would I make up something like that?” Sebastian asks, amused.

“I don’t know, which is why I’m going along with this. To see what’s behind all this.”

“Which is the bit you’ve got trouble with, then?” Sebastian asks, head tilted. “Him being alive? Or just the idea of him having a – what did you say,  _confidante_?”

“I  _saw_ him shoot himself through the head.”

“And John Watson saw you falling to your death from a roof. Your point?”

Holmes’ lips go thin as he considers this.

There’s a glint of excitement in his eyes, though. Subtle, but present. Jim may be an enemy but at least he’s an interesting one, and if Holmes really is like Jim, then…

_\- all my life I’ve been looking for distractions –_

“If he really faked it,” Holmes says, “then he would stay completely underground. It’s the safest. Why would he let anyone know it was all just a trick?”

“Because even Jim can’t do everything alone.”

Holmes huffs in response, full of derision.

“So you can accept that even though you saw his blood and brains on the rooftop, he’s alive – but you can’t accept the possibility that Jim had someone he trusted?” Sebastian asks, still more amused than offended.

“No,” Holmes says promptly. “Jim Moriarty didn’t trust anyone, and you’re a fool for trying to make me believe differently.”

“He made exceptions. When people deserved it – which, as you can imagine, wasn’t often.” Sebastian stares at the back of the seat in front of him for a moment, mind drifting, memories resurfacing…

_\- I do everything you ask me to, no questions asked, so what do I have to do for you to trust me, what do you need from me –_

-  _What do I need from you?, and his hand, cold and heavy on the back of Sebastian’s neck, those eyes boring into his –_

_\- everything –_

“Prove it.”

Sebastian blinks and looks back at Holmes, who’s once again glaring at him. He tilts his head and takes a moment to study him.

Then he says, slowly, “ _I owe you_.”

Holmes blinks rapidly, opens his mouth, closes it again.

Sebastian gives him a small smile.

Holmes shakes his head, frowning in frustration. “But  _how_  - ”

“ _Nous abordons notre descente vers Lausanne,”_   the stewardess' voice says over the tannoy, interrupting him rather effectively. _“Nous vous invitons à regagner votre siège et attacher et ajuster votre ceinture de sécurité._ ”

Sebastian obediently fastens his belt, then shoots a glance at Holmes. He still looks severely puzzled.

“Don’t worry,” Sebastian says cheerfully. “We still have an hour-long drive ahead of us, so you’ll have plenty of time to think it over.”

Holmes gives him a dark look and tries to fasten his own seatbelt, only to be brought up short by the handcuff pulling him back.

His look of frustrated fury as Sebastian leans over him to help him out puts a smile on Sebastian’s face that lasts all the way down to the ground.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will by up tomorrow or Saturday at the latest; after that, weekly posting will commence.
> 
> A note for the interested: this fic uses These Violent Delights as a jumping-off point in terms of backstory, but should be completely readable without having read TVD.  
> (The actual sequel to TVD is a whole other fic, which is still in the works and might be published some time this year or the next, if all goes well...)


	3. Lausanne

Moran is a soldier.

Or rather, an ex-soldier, but still someone who’s been a soldier for so long that it left its marks. Like John, Moran still has that telltale military bearing; it’s in the way he stands, the way he wears his clothes, the way his eyes seem to always track everything of interest, never resting for more than a few seconds. An officer, too, going off the way he talks to receptionists and cab drivers, that automatic assumption of command and superiority.

Moran is also rich, old rich, someone who’s used being around wealth, which also explains the arrogance. He’s educated, but he’s spent a fair amount of time on the streets, hence the inconsistent accent, vacillating between RP and estuary – and something else too, something undefinable but probably foreign. But he  _is_ English, that’s certain.

He’s – not violent exactly, but certainly not afraid to use violence to get what he wants. It isn’t sadism, though; he uses violence as an instrument, something to quickly get what he wants. Brutal, ugly, but efficient. Like how he’d disposed of those Serbian guards.

He’s clever.

He’s pragmatic.

He’s looking at Sherlock again.

Sherlock forces himself not to react. It’s difficult. He’s used to being stared at, in disgust, in disbelief, in disappointment – and after John he even got used to admiration. But this – this curiosity, no, this watchful cold  _fascination_ …

It’s something new.

“Here we are,” Moran says suddenly. He leans forward and addresses the taxi driver in quick French. The car pulls up, Moran pays – in cash, obviously – and they get out.

Sherlock looks up, then around, trying to look for any other possible points of interests other than the rather small gothic church right in front of them, but nothing crops up.

He runs his eye over the building. Old, squat, nothing like some of the more impressive tourist traps in other parts of the city. The noticeboard is still covered in posters and announcements, but most of them have been completely washed out by years of rain; the most recent year he can still decipher is 2010. Abandoned, then. But the big front doors are ajar.

He tilts his head, then turns to Moran. “Here?”

Moran shrugs. “Once a Catholic, always a Catholic.”

They go in. The air inside is cold, musty, a trace of incense still lingering at the edges. Their footsteps echo on the flagstones, and the bang as the door falls shut again behind them twangs against Sherlock’s nerves like a snapped bow string.

“It’s disused,” Moran says, voice slightly hushed. Funny, that. It’s highly unlikely that Moran is a religious man, but he still isn’t immune for that unthinking awe most people get in places like this. “Been like this for a couple of years.”

“Moriarty used  _this_ as a hiding place?”

“Basement level. Come on.”

They walk down the aisle. Next to the altar is a small door. Moran fishes a pair of lockpicks from his bag and bends over the lock; a few seconds later it springs open.

Not only a soldier, but a thief as well.

They go down the damp stairs, nothing lighting their way except Moran’s phone, put on torch. Sherlock catches flashes of thick stone pillars, vaulted ceilings, old faded carvings. Somewhere unseen, water drips inconsistently from the ceiling to the floor. The stink of damp and sewage hangs heavy in the air.

“Here?” Sherlock asks, the sound of his voice swallowed by the brick walls.

“Here.” Moran reaches behind a pillar and pulls something, and with a large crunch of stone grinding against stone, a slab in the wall slides forward a few inches.

A secret lair. Yes, of course; Moriarty would have lovedthis.

Moran grabs hold of a cast-iron ring and with a grunt, he opens the door. Then he steps aside, gesturing Sherlock inside like maître d’ in a five-star restaurant. 

Inside is a small room, not that much bigger than 221B’s living room. There’s a generator stuck in the corner, a camp bed near the wall, some cupboards, a table, and a bookcase, well-filled, tucked away in the far end of the room.

Moran drops his bag to the floor and switches on the lights. It’s warm, yellow, buttery light, kind to the eyes, and the stink of outside is barely noticeable here.  It’s almost  _cosy_.

“Welcome to the hidey-hole,” Moran says wryly behind him.

Sherlock slowly turns around, trying to imagine. Moriarty on the bed, shoes off, jacket off, sleeping. Moriarty reading at the table. Moriarty rifling through the cupboards in search of food.

It’s an odd experience. Strangely believable too, for all that this could still be some sort of twisted trick.

“I think he’s been here,” Moran say softly behind him.

“Why?” Sherlock asks, still eyeing the furniture.

“The books moved.”

“Compared to?”

“Last time we were here.”

“Which was?”

“Three years ago.”

Sherlock turns and lifts his eyebrow at Moran. “Three years?”

“Photographic memory.” Moran taps his temple. “Not quite as good as yours or Jim’s, but I get by. And the training didn’t hurt either.”

“Training?”

Moran brushes past him. “Jim trained me.”

“In what?”

Moran gives him a look and smirks. “A lot of things.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, then goes closer to the books. Moran follows him.

“There,” Moran says, fingers running over the spines of the book. “The dust’s been disturbed, not too long ago. They’ve changed order.”

“Write it down,” Sherlock says. “The original order.”

There’s no protest. Moran just gets a notebook and pen from his duffle bag and starts scribbling. After a minute or so, he hands over the notebook to Sherlock. ”There.”

Sherlock briefly stands in front of the bookcase, facing the books, then looks down at the notebook. Up. Down.

Then he sits down on the bed and leans back, eyes closed, visualising. At first sight it doesn’t seem to be a simple shift cipher – and wouldn’t that be too obvious anyway? – but he needs to be sure before he can simply dismiss the possibility.

He imprints the message in front of his mind’s eye, then starts running through the options.

“I have fond memories of that bed,” Moran says.

“Hm,” Sherlock says, halfway through the ten-shift.

“Odd, seeing you sitting there now.”

“Yes.” Sherlock frowns, dismisses a possibility and continues. Fifteen, not many to go now.

“Wonder what he’d think of it.”

“Mm.” Nothing, obviously. So what about a combination, a mix between a three and fourteen, maybe, or another mathematically significant number, some kind of   -

“Knowing him, it’d get him hard like a fucking flagpole.”

Sherlock’s thought processes shriek to a grinding halt. It takes all the effort he has not to jump up from the bed, like it’s infected, like –

Well. That was one thing his imagination hadn’t come up with. But now the words are there, and of course his treacherous mind takes it and –

“Ah,” Moran says, sounding oddly satisfied. “So you aren’t unaffected after all. I did wonder.”

“I hope you washed the sheets,” Sherlock says, going back to his mental coding and hoping his blush doesn’t show.

“Of course I did, Jim’s a fucking neat freak.” Moran leans back against the table, arms crossed. “He’d probably murder you within less than an hour of being in the same space.”

“What?”

“You’re messy. Don’t deny it, I’ve been in your flat.”

“You’ve – ” Sherlock looks up, realisation hitting him. “Of course,” he says quietly. “The hidden microphone.”

“Who else would he trust to go snoop around his most dangerous enemy’s home?” Moran pushes off the table and wanders over to the bookcase. “Good cocaine stash, by the way. Almost didn’t find it.”

“The one underneath the sink?”

“Behind the bath. Have you deciphered the message yet?”

“I might have, if you didn’t keep interrupting me,” Sherlock snaps. “Besides, the possibilities are endless for something with as limited data as this.”

“I thought you were supposed to be clever?” Moran looks over his shoulder, expression mocking.

“That doesn’t mean I can do the impossible.” He drops the notebook on the bed, irritated. “I need a passphrase, a codeword, without that this is all useless.”

“Useless?” Moran sneers and turns back to the bookcase. “You sure that’s a word that you want to use for yourself here?”

“I’m not the one kidnapping an enemy just because I can’t work out a basic code myself,” Sherlock snaps back.

“Obviously I – ” And suddenly Moran breaks off, face going expressionless, eyes fixed somewhere on the wall.

Sherlock stands up, slowly. “What?”

“I think you’ve got a point,” Moran says slowly, almost dreamlike.

“What about?”

“Look.” Moran steps aside and Sherlock goes over, looking where Moran is pointing.

Scratched into the back wall, almost invisible in the shadow of the books, is a string of letters and numbers.

“Ah,” Sherlock says, and for a moment he sees Moriarty, dishevelled and unshaven, hurriedly swiping away the books from the shelves and taking out a pocket knife, almost crawling between the shelves to get close enough to the back wall – 

Then the image’s gone. Still, it’s… disturbing.

“It’s… crude,” Moran says, his voice low. “It isn’t like him.”

“Unless he had no other choice.” Sherlock leans his folded hands briefly against his mouth, mind already running over the possibilities. “I’m going to need time to decipher this.”

“Yeah.” Moran clears his throat, then gets the notebook and throws it at him. “Write it down, we’ll think it over somewhere else. I don’t want to risk anyone finding us here.”

***

“ _J’avais réservé une chambre pour deux. Nom de Bejerot.”_

“ _Un instant, s’il vous plaît_ ,” the receptionist says. She briefly looks at her computer, then moves to a room behind the reception desk.

Moran leans back, eyes tracking the lobby.

“Your French is very good,” Sherlock says, fishing.

“ _Impéccable_.” Moran shrugs. “I lived abroad a lot when I was a kid. Picked up a lot of languages at international schools.”

“Where did you pick up the murdering?”

“The army,” Moran says, “ _obviously_. Now, hush, here she comes.”

The girl smiles at them.  _“Voilà. Treizième étage, le numéro vingt-deux.”_

“ _Nickel, merci bien_.”

Moran takes off, and Sherlock fells into step behind him, eyes on Moran’s back. No handcuffs now, and the lobby is empty apart from the receptionist and the bellhop at the door. Should he make a break for it?

_No._

He frowns at himself. That stab of immediate refusal was quite strong, and it doesn’t make sense. Moran is an enemy, after all, and he should be trying to get away as soon as possible. Except…

Like Moran said, this is a case. And he has always hated leaving cases unsolved. Even if it isn't Moriarty who's behind it, this case, - mysterious coded messages left in secret hiding places - still merits his attention. And although he's still highly sceptic about Moran's claims, there's a growing conviction as well that this might, after all, bear Moriarty's mark.

 

The lift pings. Sherlock follows Moran inside, watching the lobby disappear between the sliding doors with only a small pang of regret. It’s not like he has any real chance of escaping, anyway – or at least, not right now. Moran is a damned guard dog, he would recapture Sherlock before he’d even made it out of the doors. So he might as well play along, lure Moran into a false sense of security, and when he starts to let his guard down he can think about making a move.

And if in the meanwhile he can find out if Moriarty really is still alive, well…

“Coming?”

Sherlock blinks. Moran has unlocked the hotel door and is holding it open for Sherlock, obviously impatient. Sherlock goes inside and looks around. Standard issue hotel room, larger than average, shiny and clean, two chairs, a small table and –

Sherlock freezes.

Moran looks over his shoulder at him. “What?” he asks, annoyed. “Don’t tell me this isn’t fancy enough for you. It’s four stars, what were you expect – ” He breaks off, suddenly, looking first at Sherlock, then at where Sherlock’s eyes were a few seconds before.

One bed.

“What,” Moran says sarcastically. “Worried I’m going to take advantage of you?”

“Surprised at the trust, actually,” Sherlock says, rallying. “Not afraid I’m going to cut your throat when you’re sleeping?”

“I’m a light sleeper.” He crosses over to Sherlock and slams the door closed, flat-handed. “And a cuddler.”

Sherlock shudders, can’t suppress it, and the wide cruel grin on Moran’s face in reply only makes it worse.

“Anyway, no need to worry there.” Moran goes to the bed and drops down, feet dangling over the edge. “You’re not my type. I prefer my men to be less moneyed.”

“What?” Sherlock snaps, still more riled than he’d like to admit.

“Rich boy. What, didn’t grow up on an estate?”

Sherlock throws him a quick, mocking look. “Takes one to know one?”

Moran smiles. “And how did you know that, then?”

“It’s all over you.”

“Mm.” Moran closes his eyes. “Clues and information. Don’t think you’re special just because you can guess a few things about me.”

“ _Guess_?” Sherlock sneers at him.

“Deduce, whatever you want to call it.” He cracks one eye open. “You think you’re the only one who can put two and two together?”

“But I get it right,” Sherlock says. “For your information: we lived in a cottage in the Cotswolds, my mother was a homemaker and my father a middle-ranking civil servant.”

Moran shifts up abruptly onto his elbows. “You’re pulling my leg.” 

“I’m not invested enough to be  _pulling your leg_ ,” Sherlock says. “I was raised desperately middle-class.”

Moran doesn’t reply, not the way Sherlock expected him. He just looks at Sherlock, a small smile growing – triumph.

Damn it.

“No,” Moran says, smugly, dropping down and eyes closing again. “I’m not as good at guessing as you are. But I have other ways of getting information.” 

Sherlock huffs and crosses the room, taking place at the desk. He gets out the paper again and smooths is out, trying to concentrate on that, rather than the uncomfortably vulnerable feeling of having made a mistake, slipped up, shown too much…

_Damn_  Moran.

***

An affine cipher?

Sherlock frowns, tries to switch the letters around, looking for patterns.

Still only nonsense.

He blows out his cheeks and leans back in his chair, the sound of the shower running a surprisingly soothing background soundtrack.

The string of numbers and letters is simply too short. There’s no way of finding patterns, tell-tale recurrences. There’s nothing.

And yet someone – possibly even Moriarty himself – left it there, clearly intended as a message. Not too simple, so no ordinary shift ciphers. And yet it can’t be unbreakable either – why bother leaving an unreadable message?

If Moran is telling the truth, only he and Moriarty knew about the church basement. Meaning that the message would be meant for Moran, and Moran should be able to decode it, and so the key would be something Moran is familiar with. A passphrase ? A numeric sequence?

Or maybe the clue is in the books. It seems obvious. The change from the original order to the new one would be an ideal cipher, something only Moran could know – perfect except for the fact that it only gets him gibberish.

Maybe that’s a red herring, then, too obvious to be real. So maybe the clue is  _in_ the books? Does he need to download the texts, see if –

“Go the fuck to sleep.”

Sherlock jumps, whirls. Moran is standing in the doorway of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. He gives Sherlock a joyless smile, then moves across the room, towards his bag.

It’s the first time Sherlock sees him undressed, and he takes a moment to study him. There’s nothing immediately interesting: Moran is muscled, but he already knew that from the way he’d dealt with the guards, the way he’d manhandled Sherlock. The tanlines he’d already noticed as well, the contrast between the tanned hands and forearms and the white of his back and legs even more stark like this.

But the thing that does capture his attention are the scars. Quite a few scars, in fact. One deep but long since healed gash on his forearm, an ugly irregular mess on his side that can only mean explosion debris, several gunshot scars, and as he bends over and turns his back to Sherlock –

“Admiring his handiwork?”

Sherlock tears his eyes away from the lines – no,  _letters_ carved into Moran’s back, feeling uncomfortably called out.

“What can I say, he gets possessive.” Moran stretches. “Now, I did mean it. Go the fuck to sleep. You’re still recovering and it’s well past reasonable hours.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but his body betrays him and turns it into a yawn. Moran grins, then pads over to the bed.

Sherlock stares at him. The thought of getting into bed with him, to  _sleep_ that close to someone… It’s unnerving.

“You might as well make your peace with it,” Moran says, arms behind his head and eyes closed. “Because I’m not going to let you sleep you anywhere apart from within reaching distance. So unless you’d feel more comfy on the floor…”

“I’m going to take a shower,” Sherlock says.

“Be my guest,” Moran says, eyes still closed.

Sherlock stands up, grabs a towel and strides to the bathroom, reaching for the door –

“But leave the door open.”

He slowly turns. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m bored and I want something pretty to ogle,” Moran says, the sadistic enjoyment radiating off him.

“Be my guest,” Sherlock says, purposefully echoing. He leaves the door wide open and steps in, taking off his shirt.

As much as he dislikes clothes sometimes, being completely naked in front of strangers – in front of  _anyone_ – has never been comfortable to him. There’s simply something acutely vulnerable in it; a feeling that doubles when when he turns to check and sees Moran, watching him, with dark, predatory interest.

Sherlock turns his back to Moran and gets in the shower. The frosted glass gives him a semblance of privacy, enough to let his thoughts drift without feeling like he’s a specimen underneath a microscope.

So. The facts.

Moriarty is alive.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, water running down his back, and lets that thought sink deep into his mind until the automatic denials – he  _can’t_ be, he heard the gunshot, saw the blood – have died down.

Moriarty is alive. Or rather, Moriarty was alive at some point after he had seemed to have blown his brains out. Moran’s shock at seeing the coded message had been real, and no one else had any reason to be there. Oh, he can think of a few alternatives, spies and enemies, random trespassers, but none of them explain all the facts: Moran’s detailed knowledge of Moriarty’s plans, the exact location of the safehouse…

Ockham’s razor.

So Moriarty was alive, at some point in the last two years. And if Moran is right, he might very well still be alive right now.

At that thought, a shiver runs down his spine. Annoyed, he turns the temperature up and shoves that thought aside. Moran. Far wiser right now to focus on the person who definitely is alive, and moreover in complete control of Sherlock’s life right now.

Clearly Moran is invested in keeping him alive. He also wants Sherlock to be alert, working on full mental capacity, meaning he won’t actually do anything to actively harm Sherlock, annoying jabs notwithstanding. In fact, when he looks at the evidence presented so far - the food, the bandaging, and even the insistence on going to bed and getting sleep - it’s fairly clear Moran wants to keep him in good health.

The question is, of course, for how long this is going to last.

He turns off the shower and steps out, reaching for the towel.

And that’s also assuming Moran can keep his self-control, that he doesn’t get so annoyed with Sherlock that he snaps. That’s always a risk, and Moran might seem exceptionally,  _unnervingly_ in control of his emotions, but –

“How are the ribs?” Moran asks from the other room.

Sherlock pulls the towel from his head. “Fine.”

“Painful?”

“Doable.”

“Sitting hunched over a desk for hours mustn’t have helped.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Sherlock says, irritated.

Moran laughs. “I actually doubt that, but sure. Whatever you like. Now stop stalling and come here.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, then steps out of the bathroom. Moran is lying on the far side of the bed, mostly covered by the sheets, watching Sherlock with obvious amusement.

“You always sleep naked,” he asks, grinning, “or are you doing this for my benefit?”

“You didn’t provide any sleeping wear,” Sherlock says, voice chilly.

Moran waves a lazy hand at his bag. “Left side, there’s some t-shirts and things, if you’re feeling exposed.”

Sherlock, lips thin, goes to his knees next to the bag and roots around until he’s found something suitable, then quickly pulls it on. It helps with the vulnerability, but only a little; when he straightens up, Moran is still watching him with that same fixed, cruel expression.

“Look,” Sherlock say, just a tad desperately. “We both know I’m not going to get one second of sleep like this, so I might as well stay up and - ”

“Get in.”

He sighs and pads across the room, uncomfortably aware of Moran’s eyes on him. Intent, threatening. Predatory.

“You’re not as skinny as you look underneath all the clothes, are you?” Moran says.

Sherlock ignores him and gets into bed, staying as much on the far side as he can without falling off. Moran laughs again.

“Right, well. Night. And remember, whatever you can think of, I  _will_ wake up.”

And with that Moran turns onto his side, back to Sherlock. The sheets slide down and for a second, Sherlock can see the scars between Moran’s shoulder blades again, old but deep, clearly visible…

Then Moran pulls the sheets back up and burrows into the bed. A few minutes later, there’s a quiet snore.

Sherlock grits his teeth and turns onto his side, trying to block Moran out.

***

The sun seems to take ages to rise.

Sunlight is just starting to fall in through the window, a slim strip tortuously slowly moving across the floor. Sherlock stares at it, willing it to go faster.

He has no idea of the time. He left his watch in the bathroom. He can hear the ticking of Moran’s watch on the bedside table on the other side of the bed, but he can’t check that without clambering across Moran’s prone form and that’s –

He’s already been forced in closed proximity to the man for far longer than bearable.

He closes his eyes, breathes out. The night was a horror, drifting in and out of sleep pretty much constantly, startled awake by any movement next to him, or a quiet cough, or sometimes simply the sound of someone breathing, this close to him.

He opens his eyes, stares at the light moving across the ceiling. His ribs are aching.

The one time he tried to move – innocently, really, not even with the intention of escaping – Moran’s hand had clamped around Sherlock’s forearm before he’d even lifted one foot from the mattress.

_Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock_.

“What time is it?” Sherlock asks loudly.

“Nine,” Moran replies, sounding not one whit disoriented. He sits up and stretches, lazily. “Hm, I’ve had a lovely sleep. What about you?”

Sherlock glares at him and Moran grins wide.

“Do I have permission to get up, now?” Sherlock asks, sarcasm dripping of every sound.

“Sure.” Moran hops out of bed and goes to the bathroom. “I’m going to order room service for breakfast. Want anything?”

“No,” Sherlock says absently. He gets out of the bed and goes straight back to the desk, where last night's attemps are still piled up.

What little sleep he’d managed to get had been plagued by nightmares, not the usual kind but tantalizing, frustrating images of the code, transforming in ways he couldn’t follow, its real meaning just beyond his reach.

He looks down at his scribbles, then wipes them all off the desk and pulls out a fresh piece of paper.

“You do need to eat, you know,” Moran says behind him.

“I’m fine,” he says, eyes on the paper. “Eating slows down my thought processes.”

“Well, that’s bullshit.” Moran pads across the room to the phone. Sherlock blocks him out to the best of his abilities, focusing instead on the code.

Right. From the start…

Ockham’s razor, again. The simplest solution is often the right one. So that would be the books’ changed order. There have to be options he hasn’t looked at yet, that’s the only explanation.

He pulls the paper towards him and writes down the titles of the books. It makes sense, the amount of characters match up, but…

Why does he feel like he’s missing something crucial?

He sighs and starts over, running through the combinations. One to six, then another six…

A breakfast-laden tray suddenly appears in front of his face on top of his notes. “ _Bon appétit_ ,” Moran says cheerfully.

“I told you – ”

“And I’m not listening. Eat up.”

Sherlock catches a sharp reply and takes the fork, starts shoveling the egg inside as quickly as possible.

Moran crinkles his nose. “You eat like an angry toddler.”

Sherlock ignores him. Moran rolls his eyes and takes his own plate to the stuffed chair in the corner of the room. Sherlock watches him from the corner of his eyes for a few moments.

Despite his threats yesterday, he didn’t paw at Sherlock while they were in bed together, or make annoying snoring noises, or anything else Sherlock would’ve expected from that horrid pest of a man.

In fact, he’d stayed on his side of the bed pretty much constantly, giving Sherlock as much place as was possible. The only time he’d even reacted to Sherlock was when he stopped him from getting out of bed; apart from that, he behaved like a completely uninvested stranger.

But then again, Moran is a pragmatist. Maybe he took Sherlock’s warning about his state of mind when sleep-deprived to heart.

Or maybe -

“I’m going out.”

“Why?” Sherlock asks.

“Recon. Checking the perimeter.” Moran puts his plate aside and stands up, stretching. “See if we’re still invisible.”

“And me?”

“You stay.” He grabs his jacket and goes to the door, unlocks it. “Don’t escape,” he says, his back to Sherlock. Unconcerned.

“Or?”

“Or nothing. Just don’t.”

And before Sherlock can reply, Moran closes the door behind him.

Idiot.

The second the footsteps in the hallway have completely faded, Sherlock goes over to Moran’s bag and – carefully, one hand on his ribcage – kneels down next to it. He takes a few moments to memorise the way everything is lying around, then starts systematically rifling through the contents.

Nothing but clothes, at first, variations upon the same tailored shirt and several pairs of jeans, a few suits rolled up along with underwear and socks, and a few hoodies and track bottoms tellingly similar to the ones Moran forced him to wear yesterday. There’s a small toiletries bag, empty now, only just big enough for the toothbrush, deodorant and straight razor currently lyiing on the bathroom shelf. Then there’s a bigger bag, containing a very comprehensive first-aid kit, and a brown envelope, which when opened reveals about a dozen fake ID’s, some with a picture, some blank. And that's it.

Sherlock sits back on his heels, rubbing absently at his sore chest, and watches the heap of personal belongings - but maybe that’s the wrong word for this, because there is very little  _personal_  in that bag. The clothing might as well be a uniform, and as for the rest there’s nothing but the bare necessities.

There’s that tie pin, though. Moriarty’s supposed sign to Moran. He saw Moran fiddle with it a few times while they were waiting for the plane yesterday; it seemed to reassure him, in a subtle, subdued kind of way.

Sherlock shakes his head, irritated. It still seems absurd, the idea of Moriarty having someone that close to him, someone he trusts, someone he relies on. But with every moment he spends with Moran, the idea becomes more plausible. The casual intimacy every time Moran talks about Moriarty,   _I owe you_ , the scars…

If it is all a trick, it’s an extremely elaborate one.

Sherlock sighs and puts everything back the way it was, then heads to the desk.

And then pauses, eyeing the door.

It might be worth it. Moran is out, after all. Whatever else happens, Sherlock will have a head start. All he needs to do is get a message to Mycroft, let him know what’s happening. Even if he were recaptured, Mycroft would know how to track him down again.

But he’d be insufferable about it, possibly even lock him again, _for Sherlock’s own good_ , as he’s so fond of saying. Preventing him from taking this case further. And if he failed - who knows how Moran would react to an actual escape attempt? Is it worth the risk?

Sherlock sighs and sits back down at the desk. Much easier to just sit it out and see what happens.

Could be interesting.

***

Moran comes back somewhere around noon. “All safe?” Sherlock asks, not looking up from his pile of papers, which has grown significantly compared the emptied desk of this morning.

“Perfectly. You didn’t even try to run away?”

“I don’t  _try_ ,” Sherlock says derisively.

“Well, that much’s obvious.” Moran drops a few paper packages on the table and goes over to his bag, underneath the window. “Although you had a good rummage around, I see.”

Sherlock looks up in surprise. He put everything back the exact way it was, he’s sure of that. So how did Moran…

“Found anything interesting?” Moran asks cheerfully.

“Your taste in clothes is extremely boring,” Sherlock says, rallying.

“Functional. And you’re one to talk, Mr- _one-hundred-variations-on-the-same-dark-suit._ ” Moran rifles through his bag. “Hungry?”

“No.” And before Moran can start nagging again, he adds, “So is there someone following us?”

“No.” Moran straightens up again. “There’s one of your brother’s agents hanging around the city centre, but it looks more like a sleeper agent than someone especially sent to find us. He didn’t see me, at any rate.”

Sherlock stares at him.

“What?” Moran asks, eyebrow raised. “Wondering why I’m sharing this information with you? Come on, we both know you’re not going anywhere yet.”

“You seem very sure of that.”

“Trusting my instincts.” He sits down heavily and unwraps aluminium foil from a package. The smell of roasted meat and garlic fills the room. “You won’t pass up the chance to find Jim.”

“I can do that without your help. With my brother’s, if need be.”

“You think Mycroft would let you?” Moran asks. “He’s tried pretty hard to keep you away from Jim – and look how  _spectacularly_ that backfired.”

Sherlock frowns. “What do you mean, he tried to keep me away from J– from Moriarty?”

“You don’t know?” Moran raises his eyebrows, then takes a bite of his kebab, taking his time to chew and swallow, all the while watching Sherlock – baiting him again. “Well,” he says, once he’s swallowed. “As a matter of fact, Mycroft was aware of Jim long before you were – actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if he worked out the connection with the Carl Powers thing years ago. But, obviously, he didn’t tell you.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock echoes.

Can it be possible? Or is it just Moran trying to unsettle him? It wouldn’t be the first time Mycroft kept things from him, just because he thought Sherlock knowing would be a danger, or a risk. And he had seemed perfectly aware of Moriarty by the time Irene Adler happened. So would he…

Sherlock shakes his head, irritated. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, not anymore, and by worrying about it he’s giving Moran exactly what he wants.

He looks up. Moran is chewing on his kebab again, giving every impression of sitting back and enjoying the show.

Sherlock huffs and turns his back on Moran, going back to the code. If only he could concentrate…

“Not hungry?”

“Not a bit,” Sherlock says, eyes on the paper. He takes his pen, tries another affine shift. Too complicated, too many options, but maybe…

“Don’t really believe you, but sure.”

Sherlock grits his teeth. The message comes out garbled again.

He rubs his forehead, tries to think. He’s taking it too far. The cipher is obvious, twenty-six books, twenty-six letters. Only three or four options can come out of that, logically speaking.

He writes out the first, the second, the third, all nonsense words, as before. Not even staring at them for a few minutes changes that. And the fourth –

As before. Nonsense. But what did he expect, that writing it down again for the umpteenth time would have somehow changed the letters? But then what does it  _mean_?

He makes a frustrated noise, throws away the pen and jumps up, starts pacing.

“Something wrong?” Moran asks, with faint amusement.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock snarls. “I’ve tried everything I can think of and all I get is random vowels and consonants.”

“Code for something else, maybe?” Moran suggests.

“You think I didn’t consider that? I’ve tried transposing them to GPS coordinates, musical notes,  _Bible references_ …Nothing.” Sherlock continues to pace up and down the room, mind beating against the confines of his skull. “It can’t be too complicated, not if he wanted you to understand it.”

“Thanks,” Moran says dryly.

Sherlock glares at the paper. “The answer is here somewhere and I can’t see it. What does  _garbrulk_ mean? Or  _magmell_ , or  _xrl-”_

“What did you say?” Moran asks sharply.

Sherlock looks up. “Garbrulk. G A R-”

“No, after – ”

Sherlock glances back at his notes. “Magmell?”

“Mag Mell,” Moran repeats, pronouncing it strangely. His usual mocking expression has completely disappeared, and the look on his face now is one that reminds Sherlock most of John when he’s finally caught up with Sherlock’s reasoning, that same sense of awe and amazement, and confusion fading away.

Moran stays quiet for a while.

Then he looks up at Sherlock and says, quietly, “I know where we need to go next.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If all goes well, next chapter up after the weekend.


	4. Hargshammer

_\- the fomhoire –_

_\- the fairy tale monsters? –_

_\- monsters? only because the ones that came after had better publicity –_

_\- of course you’d go for the small twisted evil sea beast ones –_

“What does it mean?”

Sebastian shakes his head, irritated. “Never you mind.”

“If there’s a connection, I need to know about it,” Holmes says, annoyingly persistent. “You may be missing things. In fact, it’s rather likely you’re – ”

“I am _not_ missing anything,” Sebastian snaps.

Holmes raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“ _Yes_.” Sebastian clenches his fingers around the wheel, then forces himself to relax. “This isn’t about riddles or logic or maths. This is personal. Something between us. Relationship stuff, if you want – and that,” he adds, with a sidelong glance at Holmes, “isn’t exactly your area of expertise, is it?”;

Holmes stays quiet, face unreadable, which is its own tell. Sebastian turns back to the road.

Holmes seems continually puzzled by him – or, more specifically, by anything that has to do with Jim and Sebastian together. Every time Sebastian mentions something from their past or makes an allusion to their life together or even just calls Jim by his first name, Holmes freezes like a deer caught in the headlights.

Actually, now he considers it, that doesn’t really spell _puzzlement_ does it? Or even simple fascination. Holmes seems to consider their relationship as a personal insult. Which makes sense, really: given that Holmes seems to pride himself on his knowledge about Jim, the whole live-in partner thing is a rather large blind spot.

“Fine,” Holmes says, suddenly. He takes Sebastian’s phone from the dashboard and starts typing on it. “There,” he says after a few seconds. “ _In Irish mythology, Mag Mell was a mythical realm achievable through death and/or glory. Unlike the underworld in some mythologies, Mag Mell was a pleasurable paradise, identified as –_ ”

“Yes, fine,” Sebastian says. “Well googled.”

“It’s a fairytale?”

“Of course it is.” Sebastian takes a turn, eyes on the road. “Isn’t everything?”

“So – what, he says _Irish paradise_ and you know exactly where we’re going next?”

“It means _a resting place_.”

“We’re going to Ireland?”

“Don’t be obvious.” Sebastian shifts gear, changes lanes, feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him.

“Where, then?”

“Sweden,” Sebastian says curtly.

“ _Sweden_?”

“Yes.” Sebastian leaves the highway, following the airport sign. “Sweden.”

***

By the time they arrive at the Scandinavian coast, Sebastian is about ready to strangle Holmes.

During the flight, somewhat surprisingly, Holmes mostly behaved. He spent most of his time with his eyes closed, and when Sebastian carefully nudged him to see if he was still alive, all he got by way of reply was a snarled _mind_ _palace_ , whatever the fuck that meant.

Even in the airport he was fine, eyeing up the ever-present cameras and the military personnel patrolling around but doing nothing to draw any attention to them.

Only after about half an hour in the rental car did the questions start.

“Did you come by rental car as well when you came here with Moriarty?”

Sebastian grits his teeth and, like with the thirty-odd questions before that one, doesn’t reply to it.

“Probably not,” Holmes decides, closing his eyes and leaning back in the seat. “Too much paperwork. So you had a car stored around here, somewhere, hm? Interesting.”

Sebastian bites the inside of his cheek in an attempt to stay quiet. It isn’t just the endless probing questions, or the insufferable know-it-all attitude, or that unnerving feeling of being constantly watched, observed, judged…

No, what really gets him about all this that this, _this_ , is for some reason Jim’s main obsession. This annoying, smug, idiot boy. Compared to Jim, he’s a fucking preschooler.

“How much further?”

Case in point.

“We’re just about here,” Sebastian says, with forced patience.

“Where’s _here_?”

“You’ll see.” He takes a turn and goes down the unhardened road leading to the beach. The car hobbles violently, not made for this kind of terrain, and Holmes curses as his head bumps against the top of the car.

Another turn and the house is in sight. Sebastian pulls up and turns off the engine.

“This is it?” Holmes asks, clearly puzzled.

“Yep.”

“Are you _sure_?”

Sebastian clenches his jaw and gets out, and Holmes follows his example. Once outside Holmes looks around, still with the same disbelieving, deeply surprised expression, eyes sweeping over the landscape as if he’s seeking explanations in the sand dunes and beach pebbles surrounding them. Sebastian looks around too, trying to see what Holmes sees.

It’s hard, though, to stay objective. Everything here – the constant sound of the rushing sea, the rough pebbles underneath the soles of his shoes, the seagulls cawing and the salt taste in the air and the house, low and squat and grey –

It’s all so tinged with memories and feelings that he just can’t imagine seeing this as a stranger. To a stranger, this place must just look like a plain, small, holiday home.

To Sebastian, it’s _peace._

He fishes in his inside pocket and gets out the keyring, finds the blue one. He brings the key to the lock, and hesitates for a moment, imagining just for a second opening that door and seeing –

He breathes in deep, then unlocks the door.

Nothing.

Really nothing, a layer of dust over the whole place that speaks of months rather than weeks of being empty, and nothing else, no signs, no codes, no confirmation whatsoever that he’s in the right place.

“No one has set foot in this place for at least six months,” Holmes says from behind him, confirming his thoughts.

Sebastian closes his eyes.

Shit.

***

After two hours of thorough searching it’s clear beyond a doubt: Jim hasn’t been here in months.

Sebastian sits down heavily on the sofa and leans his head in his hands, trying to think. It might mean nothing, might just be misdirection as well, and it’s not like he’d been expecting a map with a great big cross in one spot, or anything obvious like that, but…

But the books in Lausanne, that had been done recently. No way to tell when exactly but definitely less than six months, the dust hadn’t had chance to accumulate yet. So what does this mean, then?

“You were obviously wrong.”

“I’m not,” Sebastian murmurs, eyes still closed.

“Made the wrong connection. You aren’t on his level, after all, it makes sense that you wouldn’t make the right link and – ”

“I’m _not_.” Sebastian raises his head from his hands and glares at Holmes. “Do you really think I don’t know that? That he’s so much smarter than me? I told you, this isn’t about riddles, puzzles. He _knows_ the way I think, better than anyone, and if he left that clue he’d know that the first thing I would think of is this. It doesn’t have anything to do with my intelligence at fucking all.”

“You’re very sure of that,” Homes observes, frowning.

“It’s ‘cause I know what it feels like when I _am_ being too stupid to follow. And this ain’t it.” He leans back, dropping his head on the back of the sofa, arms spread wide. “I just – need to think. Concentrate. We’re missing something.”

“ _We_?”

“Yeah, we.” He gives Holmes a look. “I did hire you, remember?”

“I don’t seem to remember you actually paying me.”

“I _am_ paying you. In entertainment. Don’t pretend you do what you do just to earn some cash.”

“I never said that.” Holmes walks over to the bookshelves and runs his fingertips lightly over the backs.

Sebastian bites back an instinctive, proprietary snarl. “I’m tired,” he announces, loudly. “I’m going to bed.”

Holmes twitches, then turns, hopefully eyeing the couch.

Sebastian gives him a cruel smile. “No. I won’t have you go snooping around here unsupervised. You’re sleeping with me.”

Holmes’ lip curls. “I told you, I don’t sleep well in a shared bed, and lack of sleep hurts my concentration. It’s in both our interests to – ”

“Well, tough. I’m not gonna risk it.” He stands up and stretches. “Come on, then. Up.”

For a moment, Holmes’ face goes rebellious and it almost seems like he’s going to protest, and oh, please, let him, because that would mean Sebastian would have an excuse to beat him into submission, and –

But he rolls his eyes, expressively, puts back the book he was caressing and gestures grandly at Sebastian. “Lead the way.”

Drama queen.

Sebastian heads to the hallway, then up the stairs. Holmes seems already to have forgotten his sulking and is taking in every detail with interest: the paintings on the wall, the worn carpet in the first floor hallway, the trapdoor to the attic, remaining tantalisingly closed…

And when Sebastian opens the door to the bedroom and goes in, Sherlock actually stops at the entrance, looking in with sharp eyes.

It isn’t anything special. Scandinavian minimalism, clean white walls and beech furniture, all practical, no-nonsense, calm. It could be any of the other holiday homes around these parts.

“Don’t run off,” Sebastian says, then goes to the ensuite bathroom, closing the door behind him. He splashes some water on his face, then puts his hand on the sink, trying to clear his head.

It feels wrong, having Holmes here. The safehouse in Lausanne, that was business - dangerous in a way but still not that revealing - but this, here? This was their home. A safe space, private, a neat little bubble of peace. _Mag Mell_.

And now Holmes knows it too. Sebastian can hear him walk around, open the cupboards. It feels deeply wrong, violating - which is supremely hypocritical of him. He brought Holmes here to help him investigate this trail Jim left, he can hardly expect Holmes to do that while standing back and staying uninvolved. 

Maybe he should have just left Sherlock in Lausanne and come here on his own.

He looks up, meets his eyes in the mirror.

Too late for that now, though. He can't undo this decision, unless he decides to kill Holmes and dump his body in the sea - and that would  _definitely_ piss off Jim. At least this way, his chances to find Jim relatively early are increased - and if Jim does mind Sherlock having been here, they can take care of the problem together.

It's going to be fine. 

He quickly changes clothes, then goes back to bedroom - and pauses, cocking his head.

Holmes is sitting on the bed, not moving. The drawers in the bedside table are all open, and –

Ah, right. Of course.

“Don’t tell me it’s the first time you’ve seen that.”

Holmes jolts and turns around quickly, rather like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I just didn’t think Moriarty would – ” And he breaks off, frowning, frustrated.

Moriarty would – what? Be into bondage? Wear condoms? Or just have sex at all?

“Well, he does,” Sebastian says as he walks over to the bed. “Enthusiastically.”

“ _Why_?” Holmes ask, evidently so baffled by the whole concept of Jim Moriarty having a sex drive that it even surpasses his usual reserve around Sebastian.

“Because he enjoys it. Obviously.” Sebastian flops down on the bed, folds his hands behind his head, and gives Holmes a lazy smile.

“I don’t understand,” Holmes says, frustrated.

“If you want me to show me, all you’ve got to do is ask.”

“How would you – ” And he breaks off, eyes narrowed, expression so affronted that Sebastian can’t help but burst out into laughter, and he’s still laughing as Holmes flounces out into the bathroom in an insulted huff.

***

_Wake up_.

Sebastian’s eyes snap open. Darkness, the softness of the bed underneath him, and a small pained noise – Jim, nightmares again, he should –

Not Jim.

Sebastian catches and holds a sigh. So Holmes’ constant restlessness and sleeping twitching in the hotel room in Lausanne was par for the course rather than a shock-induced exception. Just his fucking luck.

He turns onto his back, staring at the ceiling as next to him, Holmes wakes up with a gasp. Just like last night, he stays unmoving for a few seconds, then runs his hands over his face, practically vibrating with frustration. He gnashes his teeth – painfully audible in the quiet room - blows out another pained breath, then turns onto his side again, with heavy, aggressive movement.

With a sigh, Sebastian sits up and switches on the light.

Holmes looks at him, startled.

“Told you I wake up when a fly lands in the room,” Sebastian says, unconcerned.

“You didn’t notice last night,” Holmes says.

“Course I did. I just did you the courtesy of pretending I didn’t.”

Holmes frowns at him. “Since when are you the courteous type?”

“I have my moments.” Sebastian swings his feet to the floor. “Look, I think I still have some sedatives in my bag somewhere, if that would help.”

“It wouldn’t.”

Sebastian pauses, halfway out of the bed. “No?”

“Ex-addict.” Holmes gives him a joyless, mocking smile. “It’s not a good idea to let me close to dependency-inducing drugs. Besides, I may have built up a tolerance.”

Sebastian tilts his head. “So what do you do? At home, I mean. How do you deal?”

“Distraction.”

_\- Distract me, Jim says, wide grin and dancing eyes and he –_

Sebastian blinks. “So? What are you waiting for? Distract yourself.”

“I can’t.” Holmes runs his hand through his hair. “I don’t know how. I used to. I had my methods, but ever since I left London it just doesn’t – ” He presses his lips together, the very picture of frustration.

It’s odd, seeing him this vulnerable. Usually he reminds Sebastian of nothing more than a prickly hedgehog, biting and snapping at everything rather than give in, even for a second, but this… 

“And of course it doesn’t help that you won’t let me leave the bed,” Holmes adds, with a dark look thrown at him.

“Fuck,” Sebastian says. He sits back down on the bed, runs his hand through his hair. “Well, fine. Stay up. Just don’t leave the room, and yeah, I’ll notice.”

Holmes looks at him for a moment, then slides out of the bed – slowly, wincing and holding his ribcage as he gets up - and starts pacing.

Sebastian pulls the covers back up and turns onto his side. Fruitless, though. He won’t get a fucking wink until Holmes calms down.

It’s a habit too deeply ingrained by now to fight. A survival instinct, bred by Jim’s incessant need for attention. Jim wakes up and Sebastian will damn well wake up too, to provide whatever relief or distraction or just general amusement he can provide. But it’s not like he can – or wants to – offer the same services to Holmes.

And it’s not like Holmes would appreciate the offer even if he were willing.

Sebastian squeezes his eyes shut, grits his teeth, and resigns himself to a sleepless night.

***

Holmes eventually gets back to bed, allowing Sebastian to relax again, and when he wakes up again it’s already well after dawn.

Holmes is still sleeping. It doesn’t look very relaxing, though. He’s frowning, twitching… A miracle Sebastian managed to sleep through that, really.

He slides out of bed, stretches, then takes a robe and quietly makes his way downstairs. There’s nothing in the kitchen cupboards except some old pieces of dry toast. He sits down and eats, then drops his forehead to his hands, trying to think.

Jim sent him here. The clue couldn’t lead to anything but this. But he hasn’t been here. So…

So maybe he expected to come here but didn’t make it. Maybe he got caught. Maybe he’s –

“Why go through all the trouble of forcing me to stay in the same room as you, then leave while I’m still asleep?”

Sebastian raises his head and looks at Holmes. He’s tousle-haired, dark circles under his eyes, wearing the same jumper and track bottoms he was yesterday.

“Sadism,” he says. “Speaking of: breakfast is going to be sparse.”

“I don’t mind. Is there tea?”

“That, there is. Left cupboard.”

Holmes puts on the kettle, then reaches up for the tea bags. His movements are slow, like he’s not fully awake yet.

“So you did sleep after all,” Sebastian says, watching Holmes go through the motions of making tea.

“Certainly doesn’t feel like it.” He pulls two – two? – mugs from the cupboard, then pours in water and drops in the tea bags. It’s only when he puts both mugs on the table that he looks a little confused.

“Force of habit?” Sebastian asks wryly.

Holmes scowls, but slides the mug over to Sebastian all the same.

“Thanks,” he says, grinning. Holmes glares some more and doesn’t reply.

“Well?” Holmes says, after a few sips.

“Well what?”

“What do we do?”

Sebastian blinks at him. “I was hoping you could tell me that, actually.”

Holmes gives him a very nasty smile over his tea. “Stuck, are you?”

“For the moment, yeah.” Sebastian leans back in his chair. “He wanted me to come here. I’m sure of that, the clue led here. There’s no doubt about that.”

“So either he intended to come here and failed to make it, for whatever reason,” Holmes says calmly, “or there’s something he put here earlier, before he made the message in Switzerland.”

“Or,” Sebastian says slowly, “I’m supposed to wait here until he comes back.”

By a stroke of luck, right then there’s a loud bang against the front door – driftwood, blown past by the heavy wind, most likely. But Holmes startles so hard that half of his tea sloshes over the rim of the mug, scalding his hands. He curses and puts the mug down, wiping his hands on his hoodie.

Sebastian doesn’t bother to hide his smirk.

“So is that what you’re going to do, then?” Holmes asks, still scowling. “Just sit here and wait, do nothing?”

“No,” Sebastian says, sobering . “Can’t risk it, not if there’s another possibility. We’re going to have to go through this place inch by inch.”

“No idea what he may have left?”

“None.”

“This isn’t going to be easy.”

“No.” Sebastian gets up and claps Holmes’ heavily on the shoulder. Holmes winces at the touch. “Lucky I’ve got you, isn’t it?”

***

They start in the bedroom.

It’s the most personal of rooms here, after all, the one he’s got most fond memories of, and this whole thing is supposed to be tailored to his ideas, his memory, his associations. And they’ve got to start somewhere.

There’s one bookcase in the room, which doesn’t yield much interesting. There’s nothing hidden away underneath the bed either, or in the linen closet. Or near the bath, in the bathroom cupboards, or beneath the mat or behind some loose tiles...

Sebastian leans on the sink, breathes through the moment of momentary panic – _what if they find nothing what if he’s wrong what if he’s gone -_  and, with the practice of years, forces it down again. No sense in panicking. He just needs to keep going, that’s all.

Jim would expect him to.

He takes one final deep breath, then goes back to the bedroom. Holmes is elbow-deep in the wardrobe, half of its contents already strewn about on the floor around him.

“Right half’s mine,” Sebastian says helpfully.

“I guessed.” Holmes shoots him a brief look. “You’re not exactly similar sizes.”

Sebastian shrugs and leans back against the wall, arms crossed, watching Holmes pat down suit jackets.

That’s a sign of its own, really. If Jim never intended to come back here, he wouldn’t have left the charcoal Zegna behind. He fucking loved that jacket.

He loved taking it off too, now he remembers it…

“He really wore these?” Holmes asks suddenly, holding up a pair of torn jeans with an expression of disgust.

“When there was no one around to see him, yeah, sure.”

“Except you.”

“I don’t count,” Sebastian says. 

Holmes frowns. Then he abruptly drops the jeans and turns to Sebastian. “I don’t understand,” he announces, with as much affronted indignity as an angry three year-old.

“You don’t understand what?” Sebastian asks mildly.

“You. And Moriarty. How did he – what – how is it even _possible_ that you – ”

“Go on, then, spit it out,” Sebastian says, amused.

“Fine.” Holmes sits down. “How did it start?”

Sebastian watches him for a few moments. The curiosity is sharp and clear in Holmes’ face; the same hunger he’s already seen a few times before.

“And why exactly should I tell you that,” he asks, letting some threat seep into his voice.

Holmes’ expression changes, his jaw setting. “I told you, I need information if I’m to do my wo-“

“And I told _you_ that I’m only going to give you relevant information.”

“This is relevant information,” Holmes snaps. “You said it yourself, remember? This search is meant for you, tailored to your skills, your preferences, your knowledge, and what Moriarty knew of those. How can I analyse any of that if I know nothing about your – your relationship with him?”

Sebastian stares at him.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. But…

But the man’s got a point, unfortunately.

Sebastian sighs and leans back against the wall, arms crossed. “All right,” he says, resignedly. “What do you want to know?”

“How did it start?”

“Good question, actually.” Sebastian runs a hand through his hair, tries to order his thoughts. “I… worked for him,” he starts. “Just another gun for hire. I caught his attention – and he caught mine, really.”

“How so?”

“He liked to hang around when important things were happening, but in disguise. Like he did with you.”

“Jim from IT,” Holmes murmurs, with a strange, wry, self-mocking smile.

“Yeah. Kind of a habit with him. And he was used to blending in, people not noticing him. But I did.”

“You noticed what?” Holmes asks, head tilted.

“That he wasn’t who he pretended to be. That was the start of it, I suppose. Jim saw me noticing him and that made me either a risk or an asset. Either way, he couldn’t afford letting me run around free like that. So he took me in.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, no. It happened gradually, step by step, over the course of years. I started out just as a personal bodyguard or assassin for more difficult jobs, then I got to be in charge of a few teams, relaying orders, after that I started managing bits of the network on my own…”

“Yes, yes,” Holmes says impatiently. “But that’s simply the work, the job. What about him? How did he – how did he tolerate having someone close?”

“No idea.” Sebastian shrugs. “I’m good at not annoying him, picking up signals. And I… I worshipped him, basically. Still do. Guess that helps.”

Holmes stays quiet, eyes down. Not hard to guess what he’s thinking about, though; Sebastian has seen enough footage of Watson and Holmes together to notice the parallels.

“He never gave any hint,” Holmes mutters. “Moriarty. He gave away nothing. A _live-in normal_ , a _pet_ – always with such contempt. And all the while…”

“He’s good at secrecy.”

Holmes runs his hands over his face. “I thought I knew him. I thought I knew how he worked, what he was. Where we were alike, where we were different. But this – I never could have predicted…”

“Why not?” Sebastian asks. “Isn’t it what you and Watson have?”

“But that’s what I thought was the difference between him and me.”

There’s a long silence. Holmes looks thoughtful at first, lost in thought. Then he blinks, shoots a look at Sebastian, and suddenly he looks a little uncomfortable.

Sebastian shares the feeling. For a moment there, a fleeting, strange moment, it almost felt like he was talking with a – a friend, of some sort.

He’s never talked about any of this, not to anyone. Who on earth could he have talked to about _this_? And he never really felt a need to, either. Jim has always been everything he needs. 

But…

Holmes stands up and goes back to the wardrobe. “We’re going to need food,” he says, half-disappeared in between the clothes.

“Well, that’s a surprise,” Sebastian says. “Never thought I would hear you actually _asking_ for food.”

“It’s a necessity. Even I can’t survive on dry toast. I’ve tried, apparently the diet people aren’t lying when they go on about the importance of vitamins.”

“Right.” Sebastian stands up. “But you’re coming with me. I told you before, no chance I’m leaving you here alone.”

“Not afraid that I’ll make a scene, alert the police?” Holmes asks, sarcastically.

“Try, and see what happens.” He grabs Holmes’ coats and throws it at him. “Come on, let’s go get your vitamins.”

***

Days pass.

From dawn ‘til dusk, they search the place. Working methodically, going from room to room, rooting to every cabinet and bookcase, analysing every little scrap of paper they can find. It's annoying, tiring work, the hope each tiny scrap of  _something_ might give immediately followed by disappointment or frustration when it eventually leads to nothing.

Holmes doesn't exactly make it easy, either. More than once, Sebastian has to seriously question the wisdom of his choice, as Holmes just sits back in a corner with his eyes closed, not responding to anything, or when he starts talking more to himself than to Sebastian, at a tempo and with a structure he has no chance of comprehending; all in all, it's a miracle he hasnt't brained Holmes yet.

And yet, there are also other moments. Where Holmes dismisses something that Sebastian thought was a code with a handwave, deciphering it in a matter of seconds and explaining it as a footnote on chemistry, or where he goes to an entire bookcase in a matter of hours, immediately filtering out anything that looks important. 

Maybe Holmes is wrong, of course. He's got no way of judging that. But as the days pass the similarities between Holmes' and Jim's way of thinking become more and more obvious, and that, combined with Holmes' confidence...

But none of it matters; eight days in, they still have absolutely nothing.

Sebastian looks down at the table top, staring down at the wood as if it contains the answers they failed to find anywhere else. “Think,” he mutters. “If he hasn’t been here, why would he send me here?”

“Maybe you interpreted the clue wrong.”

“I didn’t,” Sebastian says, irritated. “I just – don’t understand what I’m supposed to be looking for. Something he left earlier – a contingency plan?” He rubs his face.

“In the safe,” Holmes says.

Sebastian slides his hands off his face and rolls his eyes. The high-grade titanium safe in the study has been the cause of more than one argument the last few days, Holmes being convinced their answer lies in there, while Sebastian absolutely refuses to even consider breaking it open.

“He’s fond of explosives, remember?” Sebastian says sharply. “If we don’t get it right at the first try, we lose everything. So unless you’ve found a sixteen-digit code on a note somewhere saying _use this one it’s okay_ I’m not touching that bloody thing, and you should stop fucking going on about it.”

Holmes snorts and leans back in his chair, arms crossed and expression thunderous. Sebastian glares at him for a moment, then runs his hand over his face.

It’s hard, this. He manages most of the time, focusing on the now, on what he’s got to do, on the job, just like he was taught. But _Christ_ he misses Jim. It hurts, not having him near, almost a physical hurt like a sprained wrist, a pulled muscle, a constant nagging ache he can suppress but never really fully ignore. 

He grits his teeth, fights back the feeling. Jim would’ve mocked him for it, had he been here. He can’t afford this kind of weakness. He needs to _focus_ , damn it all.

A small noise makes him look up.

Holmes is staring at him with a very strange expression.

Sebastian bites back his first instinctual snarl, takes some time to breathe in, calm down again. Then he straightens up and turns his back to Holmes.

“Wh-”

“Food,” Sebastian snaps. He turns off the heat and puts the pot on the table. “You didn’t notice it starting to burn?”

Holmes shrugs, unconcerned. “I assumed you knew what you were doing.”

Sebastian snorts, then ladles some of the stew onto Holmes’ plate and his own.

The fact that Holmes doesn’t cook still feels strange. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, or doesn’t feel like it. It’s not even that he’s bad at it. The fact is that Sherlock Holmes _can’t cook_. Somehow the man made it to being a relatively functional thirty-something adult without so much as being able to boil pasta.

But he does seem to appreciate Sebastian’s cooking, given the way he’s gobbling up the casserole on his plate. 

“I still think it must be the safe,” Holmes says, pushing his half-empty plate away from him.

“Finish that.”

Holmes crinkles his nose. “I’ve had enough.”

“You’ve eaten barely enough to sustain a five-year old. Finish your plate.”

He sighs, but puts his fork back into his potatoes.

“And I don’t,” Sebastian adds. “If it were, something would’ve pointed towards it. I’m not just going to try and break through seven inches of titanium just to satisfy your curiosity.”

“It’s obvious,” Holmes says, mouth full. He swallows, then continues, “Where else would he hide something important? In the heart of the house, in the most protected space, where only you can reach it.”

“But I _can’t_ , that’s the point,” Sebastian says. “i've got the codes for plenty of other safes, but not this one. He _explicitly_ didn’t want me to go in there. If I’m to go against his orders now… I need something more than context clues. He would give me something more.”

“Such as?”

“A clue. Which we didn’t find.”

“The clue in Switzerland – ”

“I’m not opening the safe,” Sebastian says firmly, under Holmes’ dark glare.

“Which leaves us…”

“Nowhere.” Sebastian leans back in his chair, arms folded. “Trust me, I’m aware. We’ve searched this house top to bottom and – ”

“What about outside?” Holmes asks suddenly.

“What?”

Holmes squints at Sebastian. “What did you do here? When he was here, with you?”

“Nothing much,” Sebastian says, frowning. “Read, sleep, fuck, eat. The whole point of this place is that there’s no real work. Why?”

“Nothing else?”

“Well, we…” Sebastian trails off, thoughtfully. “We walked around a lot, now that you mention it. He likes the sea. You think that’s…”

“It’s worth a try,” Holmes says, standing up. “Like you said, we turned the house over and there’s nothing. So, logically, the clue is somewhere else. But the clue in Switzerland pointed us here. You walked, you say?”

“Yes?”

“Show me.”

Sebastian stares up at Holmes for a moment. Then he sighs and pushes away his plate. “Fine. But don’t even think about running off.”

“I promise,” Holmes says, rolling his eyes.

***

The temperature outside is still relatively cold for this time of the year, and after the pleasant warmth of the cottage it comes as a bit of a shock.

Sebastian takes a few deep breaths of the silty air, looking around, trying to remember. Jim, in summer, hands in his pockets and eyes closed against the glare of the sun, and Sebastian at his heel, bemused and fond…

“Did he have a set route?” Holmes asks beside him.

Sebastian blinks. “Not really, no. We just – wandered about, really. Although I do think there’s one or two paths we often took.”

“Lead the way, then.”

Sebastian looks at him. “You really think this is what this is about?”

“It has to be something you, _only_ you could find,” Holmes says thoughtfully. “Seen like that, it makes sense. Even if someone did stumble across the house, put two and two together, realised who lived there… They wouldn’t search the environment as well, not without prompting.”

Sebastian hums, then frowns, step faltering.

“What?” Holmes asks.

“What you said, about someone stumbling across here… What if that’s what happened?” He looks up. “What if that’s why we can’t find anything?”

Holmes snorts. “Don’t you think Moriarty would have thought of that, put some kind of safeguard against casual trespassers?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I suppose.”

“Well then.” Holmes gestures at head. “Show the way.”

They walk on in silence, both taking in the environment, watching for any sign. Not that there’s much. The coastline is stark here, nothing but rocks and grey sand, wide open and constantly changing. If he hid anything here, it’s either buried deep or already washed away by the sea.

“And what if someone found – whatever-it-is that’s hidden here by accident?” Sebastian asks. “That’s a possibility, right?”

“Yes, which is why whatever it is probably won’t be visible to casual bystanders. It’s up to you.” Holmes looks up at him. “Anything that springs to mind? A meaningful location? A place he mentioned?”

“Not really, no.”

They reach a crossroads, one way leading close to the sea, staying on the rocks, the other heading into the forest.

“Which way?” Holmes asks.

“Both. Although…” Sebastian looks down both the paths. “If he’s going to hide something, I’m thinking it may be the forest. There’s nothing much down the coast, and there’s always the risk that the tides may wash it away.”

“Come on, then.” Holmes takes off and Sebastian falls into step behind him. They both slow down as they come near the edge of the pine forest, eyes on the ground. If before the surroundings were too bare to really notice anything, here the opposite is true. The trees grow thick and high, the ground strewn with fallen pine needles.

“Needle in a fucking haystack,” Sebastian mutters.

They follow the path between the trees. Holmes moves with a strange, shuffling step, eyes going between the path and the trees. Sebastian tries to follow his example, take in as much of the environment as possible.

It’s useless, though. There are potential hiding places every yard: a burrow underneath a shrub, a pile of oddly piled rocks, a fallen tree, roots unearthed…

“This is impossible,” Sebastian says, throwing up his hands. “If we want to check everything here, we’ll need years.”

“It won’t be an obvious hiding place,” Holmes says again. “It has to be a place that has some kind of significance to you, but that wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone else. Are you sure you can’t – ”

“I’m _thinking_ , all right?” Sebastian snaps.

Holmes gives him a thoroughly unimpressed look. “Think harder.”

“In a rush to find him, are you?” Sebastian says sourly.

“We’ll just follow this path,” Holmes says, ignoring him. “Don’t look too much for details, just see if something triggers your memory. We can go over it more thoroughly afterwards, if we have to.”

Sebastian sticks his hands in his pockets and walks on, racking his brain. Something significant.

He doesn’t remember much, to be honest. His memories are blurred, one day running into another. What he mostly remembers are images, frozen moments. Jim in bed, stretching lazily, the morning light falling onto his skin. Jim in the kitchen, chair tilted back, watching him cook with an affectionate-mocking look. Jim in the sea, arms spread and face tilted back, trousers soaked up to his thigh and smile ecstatic.

He looks up. One tree looks much like the other. Nothing stands out for him.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think this is it.”

“You have another idea?” Holmes asks, irritated.

“I just – I don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking for.”

“Something only you would remember, only you would see – ”

“Like what, exactly?”

Holmes gives him an annoyed look. “Well, _obviously_ I don’t know, that would defeat the whole purpose. Can’t you think of anything that – ”

“No, I can’t. This is just – I look at this and all I think is _trees_.” He throws his arm wide, looks around ostentatiously. “Big trees, smaller trees, fallen trees and damaged trees and – ”

He stops.

Stares.

“You… may have a point,” he says, throat a little dry.

“What?” Holmes asks sharply.

“I… I, er, remember that tree.”

Holmes looks at him. “What did he – ” 

“You don't want to know.” Sebastian goes over to the pine in question and runs his fingers over the bark, where he can still see the deep grooves left by his fingernails and the knife.

“I suppose it has to do with sex?” Holmes asks sourly.

“Yeah.”

“You had sex against that tree and that’s why he picked that place?”

Sebastian glances at him, then has to hide a smile at the completely baffled expression on Holmes’ face. “It was very special sex,” he says, solemnly.

“What’s – ” Holmes stops himself again. “You’re right, I don’t want to know.”

“Good. So.” Sebastian steps back and looks up the tree. “High up, you think? In the branches?”

“Or in the ground.” Holmes drops down onto his knees, running his hands over the roots. He tries to dig his hand into the earth, then curses and pulls it back. “It’s hard.”

“We’re lucky we didn’t come earlier,” Sebastian says. “In winter this would have been frozen solid.”

Holmes hums, absently, frowning at the earth. Then he reaches into the front pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a small knife.

Sebastian raises his eyebrows. “Planning something, were you?”

“Never hurts to be prepared.” He digs the point into the earth and uses it to lever out some of the dirt. Sebastian watches him for a moment, then crouches down as well, pulling his own – considerably more impressive – knife from his ankle holster.

Holmes shoots him a quick look. “And what are you planning, exactly?”

“Surviving,” he says, curtly. He finds a spot about a yard away from Holmes, and starts digging as well.

For a while they stay quiet, concentrating on the work. The ground is not completely frozen, but still hard and cold, and getting beyond the top layer takes a lot of effort. After a few minutes his breath is coming quickly and he’s sweating, the cool air feeling like ice on his hot face.

Then Holmes suddenly stops.

“What? Found something?”

Holmes pushes the earth away, then straightens up, holding a small plastic ziplock bag. There’s a slip of paper inside, which he extracts with careful fingers. He looks at it a moment, then hands it over to Sebastian. “For you, I think,” he says, smugly, but there’s a brittle kind of excitement there as well.

Sebastian looks down at the slip of paper. A string of numbers is jotted down, in Jim’s slanting, messy handwriting.

“The safe,” Holmes says.

“Yeah.” Sebastian clears his throat and slowly gets back up. “Yeah, you’re… You’re right.”

They look at each other.

Then they turn, almost simultaneously, and hurry back up the path about as quickly as they can without outright running.

Sebastian looks down at the slip of paper, runs his thumb over the pencil marks, heart beating wildly. Jim wrote this. Jim wrote this, and he hid it, just in case. And he relied on Sebastian to find it.

Would he have found it on his own, without Holmes’ assistance? Eventually, maybe. Or he might have gotten lost in frustration and despair instead, too tired to keep looking. Did Jim take that into account, how hard it is to do this all without him?

Doesn’t matter. He’s got assistance now.

Sebastian opens the door and they go in and up the stairs. His mouth is dry, and his hands feel a little sweaty.

If they’re wrong, if the safe doesn’t open – or worse, if the safe opens and there’s nothing of interest inside, or if the code is wrong and the contents self-destruct… How the hell is he going to cope with that?

They go to the bedroom. Sebastian takes out the code and crouches in front of the safe. He raises his hand, then stops.

It’s too much. The consequences of this, no matter what happens, are just too important. He turns that lock and he’ll know, and it’s –

“Do you want me to do it?” Holmes asks impatiently.

“No,” Sebastian says quickly, because the thought of Holmes’ hands on something Jim had intended specifically for him is even worse than all the other alternatives combined.

“Then open it,” Holmes snaps.

Sebastian glances down at the paper, then turns the lock. Three left, fifteen right…

It springs open.

That’s something, at least. He breathes out, heavily, then pulls the door open all the way.

Inside is nothing but a manila folder.

Holmes reaches past him and takes it out, rifling through the contents. Sebastian sits back heavily. “What’s it say?”

“Nothing. Blueprints, that’s all, no text, no coordinates, no – not anything.” He shoves the folder in front of Sebastian’s nose. “Does this mean anything to you?”

He flips through the pages, his blood running cold because what the fuck does he know of architecture? Maybe Jim overestimated him after all, maybe he's just too stupid to see, maybe -

“It seems to be some kind of large manor house, judging by the blueprints,” Holmes says.

Sebastian flips another page – a manor house, a big one, that rings a bell somewhere – and another page and that, that’s a garden, even if he can see that, and…

“Ah,” he says, relief and excitement mixing in his blood with an intensity that makes him nauseous. “I think I know where this is.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.” He looks up. “We’re going to Italy.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand for the next chapter, you'll probably have to wait at least a week. Thanks for the read so far!


	5. Aragno

“Where are we heading exactly?” Sherlock asks when they get out of their car at Stockholm airport.

“Small village in Abruzzo. Not that far from L’Aquila, if I remember right.”

Sherlock frowns as he follows Moran into the airport terminal. Once again, Moran’s accent briefly shifted, from bog-standard estuary English to what to Sherlock’s relatively untrained ear sounded like pitch-perfect Italian vowels and consonants.

It’s unnatural, how suddenly and perfectly that switch happens. Normal people don’t code switch mid-sentence, they stay in the same register all the way through. But Moran seems to switch languages with a total lack of effort that doesn’t make any sense.

It makes him review the thought he had before, about Moran being natively English – the name might be Irish, but going on what he’s heard so far, Moran could be anything from French to Norwegian. But as to which, specifically…

He rubs his forehead. The lack of sleep is starting to get to him, eating away at his concentration. It’s not like he slept well before, constantly on the run as he was, but ever since Moran kidnapped him, it’s taken a turn for the worse. He can’t get a single night without at least a handful of nightmares, and the time inbetween isn’t exactly restful either. And as if that alone wasn't enough, hsi ribs are still not fully healed, occasional pangs of sharp straight into the centre of his mind. In the quiet of the seaside cottage it was manageable, but here, in the busy, massive airport...

“You got tickets?” Sherlock asks, trying to drag himself back to the present.

“Yep, just need to switch the vouchers for the actual tickets. Flight to Naples airport, leaves at eight.”

“Naples?” Sherlock frowns, calling up his mental map of Italy. “Wouldn’t it be easier to take the one to Rome?”

“Hardly,” Moran snorts. “It’s closer, yeah, but Rome is Adler’s hunting ground these days, and you can be damn sure she’ll know if I set foot into her territory.”

Sherlock’s head whips around. “You know Irene Adler?”

“Of course I do,” Moran says, sounding a little surprised. “Jim and her worked together. You can’t have missed that, can you?”

“No, but I – I assumed he just…” Sherlock trails off. The thought of her and Moriarty together is confusing, complicated, terrifying. Even though he was aware of it, of course he was –

_\- the virgin, he calls you –_

\- but he still hadn’t really, actually _considered_ it.

He focuses back on Moran. “You’ve met her?”

Moran gives him a small smirk. “You could say that, yes.”

Sherlock’s mind immediately falls back to Moran’s casual remarks about restraints and sex and _of course_ they interacted, but – 

He forcibly dismisses it. Those are images he wants no part in. “Not on friendly terms, then?”

“With Adler?” Moran smiles, wryly. “Not exactly, no. Not exactly hostile, either. It’s rather complicated. And this whole thing is already more complicated than is ideal, so don’t let’s take this any further, all right? It’s Capodichino or nothing. Now shut it,” he adds, as the person in front of them moves away and the receptionist turns her eyes to them.

Moran immediately leans in and starts talking in fluent, if accented Swedish. The girl behind the counter smiles – genuine, corners of her eyes crinkling, and her fingers playing with her hair –

Flirting.

It isn’t the first time people have responded to Moran like that. Eyes linger and faces redden when he passes, people of all genders, even when Moran doesn’t seem to be actively trying anything. There is simply something about him that attracts people like flies to honey. God knows what, though. He’s got the sort of symmetrical face and muscular physique that most people find appealing, but so do a lot of other men, and none of them cause quite the strange, almost magnetic reaction Moran does. 

“Come on,” Moran says, moving away from the counter, two tickets in his hand. Sherlock follows obediently, even though inside it rankles, being ordered around . In an odd way, this reminds him of being a child, trailing after Mycroft, reluctant and his feet dragging. 

He squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to fight the encroaching headache. Another plane. Another flight. Another few hours of being locked in a tiny space, nothing to occupy his mind but the other people, pressed in close, and his brain overheating because of this damned lack of sleep –

Moran suddenly grabs his arm and pulls him along. Sherlock, too surprised to react, stumbles after him, down the hallway to a door half-hidden behind two vending machines. Moran lets go of his arm and digs in his pocket, pulls out something small and shiny – lockpicks – and opens the door with as much ease as if he were using the key. Then he shoves Sherlock into the room and shuts the door with a loud bang.

It’s quiet. Shadowy, dark.

 _Quiet_.

Sherlock sits down on a crate and lets out his breath in a long sigh, drinking it in.

Then he looks up. “What’s this for, then?” he asks, dryly. “Sudden urge to beat me up in private?”

“You were going into a panic attack,” Moran says curtly.

Sherlock blinks. “What?”

Moran gives him a disbelieving look. “You mean you don’t even – you were overstimulated, shaking, all over the place, a minute more and you’d’ve gone into shutdown. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that?”

“How did _you_ know that?”

“Because this isn’t the first – ” He breaks off, mouth thin, and turns his back on Sherlock.

Sherlock leans his elbows on his knees and tries to think.

Overstimulated. Shutdown.

And Moran noticed.

Which means –

“Moriarty,” Sherlock says, his voice sounding dry and heavy in the shadowy room.

“Like he told you,” Moran says. “You’re the same. And I know how he works.” He turns, his face not entirely visible. “Which, I suppose, means I know how you work too.” 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything.

Mycroft knows him – in a way, a dispassionate disconnected way, understands him on an intellectual level but doesn’t really _know_ what it’s like to be him. John – he tries, he does, and he knows a little by now but like Mycroft, he doesn’t really realise what it’s like, for him. And Irene Adler –

Irene Adler is complicated.

But Moriarty? It had been like having his reflection extend his hand out of the mirror in welcome. An extremely disconcerting, unsettling experience - not in the least because that level of knowledge, of  _intimacy_ , came from someone perfectly willing to hurt him or the people he cares about it.

And now Moran. Moran, who knows Moriarty, and as a consequence...

Sherlock rubs his hands over his face. “It’s mostly just the lack of sleep,” he says, reluctantly. “It’s hard to concentrate, to keep focused.”

Moran nods, patient, non-judgemental. “Take as long as you need,” he says. “Flight doesn’t leave for another two hours.”

“You know, you’re very considerate for a remorseless killer,” Sherlock says sarcastically.

“I’m a man of many contradictions.” Moran opens the door. “Knock when you’re ready,” he adds, then steps out and closes the door behind him, leaving Sherlock alone in the blessed silent darkness.

***

It’s night by the time they arrive in Naples. 

Sherlock blinks, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness as they step out of the plane onto the tarmac. After the bright lights of the airport and the plane, this is a shock – as is the air, heavy and warm even at this hour.

“There’s been a heatwave,” Moran says. “Think we’re just catching the last of it.”

Sherlock crinkles his nose in distaste. “Let’s hope so.”

Moran glances at him. “Proper delicate little English rose, aren’t you?”

“For preferring temperatures below forty degrees Celsius? If you say so.”

Moran rolls his eyes and takes off, Sherlock following a step behind, scanning the environment. There are pairs of armed soldiers patrolling up and down in the main terminal, which seems like a risk. But Moran doesn’t seem worried – and with reason, it seems. The two men barely spare them a glance, nor any of the bleary-eyed tourists and annoyed-looking businessmen around them. Bored, sleepy, just performing their duty without any energy at all. Still…

“Not worried we’re going to get caught?” Sherlock asks, once they’re out of earshot of the soldiers.

“No. Your brother won’t risk putting out an official search order or you, because that could draw the attention of the wrong people. And me, well, I’m invisible.”

“For the moment, maybe. But if anyone sees us together…”

“Who?” Moran asks sensibly. “Mycroft’s agents? I can spot those miles away. And the CCTV – like I said, that’s being taken care of. Now come on,” he adds, with a glance at the clock hanging above the double fire doors, “I want to leave ASAP, if we're lucky we'll arrive before the temperature hits its max.”

Capodichino is not a small airport, and even though they didn’t have any checked-in luggage, they still spend quite a while in the building, navigating the corridors and escalators and following an endless line of _uscita_ signs until they finally find their way to the parking lot outside. Once again, as they step out of the sliding doors, Sherlock gets that feeling of being hit in the face with something warm, as if someone directed a hairdryer of massive proportions directly at him.

He blows out a breath and pulls at his T-shirt, scrunching his nose.

“You really don’t like the heat, do you?” Moran asks.

“I wasn’t faking distaste just to give you something to mock, no.”

“Well, let me know when you need a break or something.” He looks out over the parking lot. “And we probably need to pick up some water on the way there. Now, let me see. Napoli, that’s…” He mutters something under his breath, moving his fingers as if he’s counting something.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks.

“Trying to remember where our transport is. Ah, right, think I got it.”

He strides off. Sherlock hurries after them. “You’ve got a car in every airport in the world?”

“Not every one. And not exactly a car either, no, if I remember right…”

They go past the cars, to the row where several motorcycles are parked. Moran looks at them for a moment, then pulls a heavy black Honda from the rack and unlocks it, with a key from the heavy keyring he keeps in his inside pocket. “You know how to ride pillion?” he asks over his shoulder.

“More used to be the one driving.”

“Why am I not surprised.” Moran throws him a helmet. “Shame there’s no fucking way I’m letting you top.”

“What?”

Moran simply grins at him, then swings his leg over and zips his jacket up. He gives the seat behind him an inviting pat.

Sherlock glares at him. “What if I fall off?”

“I won’t let you,” Moran says calmly. “Now hop on, gorgeous.”

Sherlock swings his leg over the bike, takes a deep breath, then grabs hold of Moran’s waist. With the thick leather of Moran’s jacket separating his hands and arms from Moran’s skin, it’s bearable, but only just.

He shifts in his seat, trying to find his balance, reacquainting himself with the feeling of being on a motorcycle. The heavy engine beneath him, the delicate stability of the bike, the startling freedom of movement that just as easily can feel like a void to fall into…

Moran revs up. Sherlock winces and tightens his grip, and they head out of the airport down to the highway.

Moran, it turns out, is a pretty good driver – which is a stroke of luck, given the state of the roads they have to use. The heat has dried out what in other circumstances might have been dangerous quagmires, but it’s still very far from a smooth, even road. They bump and jolt along at high speed, Moran’s skill and excellent reflexes the only things keeping the bike upright where other drivers might have gotten stuck every ten yards.

Sherlock grits his teeth and, by necessity, tightens his grip on Moran’s waist.

It’s unnerving, riding pillion. Worryingly – _intimate_ , almost. He feels extremely aware of every movement Moran makes, no matter how small, and even with the thick leather between them he can still feel the movement of Moran’s ribcage as he breathes. And it isn’t just that physical nearness; the worst of it is that sense of attunement, of following Moran’s lead almost as if it were a dance. It’s easy, too, leaning along when they take a corner, predicting the movements to come in a way that has less to do with rationality and more with an almost animal instinct – and that is worrying in and of itself too.

He shouldn’t feel this damned _attuned_ to Moran, of all people.

And it’s strange, when he considers the implications. The fact that they didn’t keep a car at the airport but a bike means – but maybe Moriarty drove, and Moran was the passenger? Or maybe they have two bikes stashed in the airport and Moran didn’t give him one in case he tried to escape? Because the alternative, the thought that Moriarty may, at one point, have been exactly where Sherlock is right now… It’s absurd.

Then again, they did have sex together, so –

Something grabs his arm and he opens his eyes, startled. Moran, pulling Sherlock’s hand back to his waist – he must have let go, distracted.

“Pay attention,” he can just hear Moran yell at him, through the helmets and the wind.

Sherlock presses his lips together and holds on tight, focusing on nothing but the drive.

***

He loses all track of time. The landscape around them shifts, barely visible in the light of a waning moon, past industrial sites and tree-lined country roads and villages barely two streets big. Signs are few and far between, and any other point of interest whooshes by too quickly to pay any attention to it. It’s boring, in short, and he’s tired, and after a while he falls into a strange kind of half-sleep, the very real landscapes around them blurring and mixing with dream-images of London, of the countryside around his parents’ house, of the moors of Baskerville…

“ _Watch it_.”

He startles awake to find Moran’s hand, clamped just above his knee. Sherlock makes an irritated movement and Moran puts his hand back on the handlebar.

Sherlock blinks, straightening up again. The sun has broken across the horizon, dipping the grayscale environment into molten rose-gold light. It’s heating up again too, still reasonably cool but with the promise of real heat to come in the air.

He shifts in his seat, trying to change position while touching Moran as little as possible. He almost got used to the proximity, but now it hits him again, the feel of him beneath Sherlock’s hands and knees, the _awareness_ of him. He takes a deep breath, the smell of gas and leather overwhelming all others, and – since he has no other choice – concentrates on the driving again, following Moran’s lead.

They slow down, then stop at a crossroads. The main road continues straight ahead, and to both left and right run dusty country roads, off into nowhere. Moran, one foot on the ground, looks around slowly.

“Lost your way?” Sherlock shouts at him.

Without a word, Moran shuts his visor and takes off again, the dust sparking off the road as they fly into speed and take a broad left, onto the smaller road. After a while the road climbs up a hill; the engine revs as Moran keeps his devilish speed.

They pass through a small village, houses the sort of sun-weathered stone that looks more like it belongs two centuries ago – then Sherlock blinks and they’re past it, heading further up the hill, leaving even that little glimpse of civilization behind.

Where the _hell_ are they going?

They go up the meandering road until it evens out a little again, unto some kind of plateau – then Moran suddenly takes a sharp left, onto an even smaller road Sherlock hadn’t even noticed. The change of direction comes unexpected and he flounders, tightening his hold of Moran’s waist and taking a second before he can lean into the turn like he’s supposed to. Moran corrects without a hitch.

“Almost there,” Moran yells.

They speed up the small road. Large parts of it are unhardened and it’s a bumpy ride, to say the least. Sherlock has to maintain his tight grip on Moran and it takes all his concentration just not to fall off.

His teeth clack together as a rather large bump in the road almost makes them lose contact with the ground. There are a few sharp turns as they head higher up the mountain, hill, wherever they are, and then the road blessedly goes level again. The sun beats down on them, no trees to protect them for its early glare. Sherlock can almost see the dirt road dry out beneath the wheels.

Then Moran starts slowing down.

Sherlock blinks, shifts a little in his seat and looks over Moran’s shoulder to the road ahead. A huge fence runs all the way, as far as he can see across the plateau, and a cast-iron gate waits ahead of them.

Moran shuts down the engine and swings off, taking the keys along with him. He takes the helmet off and goes over to what seems to be some kind of keypad at the side of the gate. He briefly hesitates, then pulls off his glove and puts his hand on the pad. It beeps, and a second later the gate starts opening.

Moran doesn’t move for a moment, then abruptly turns. His expression on his face is - stricken, almost.

Sherlock tilts his head. “You haven’t been here before.”

“No,” Moran says, and there’s a crack in his voice, a vulnerability. “He talked about it, but he didn’t – I didn’t really expect he…” He clenches his hand into a fist, relaxes the fingers again.

His handprint, encoded as a security to a place he’s never visited. A sign of trust? Is that how Moran is reading this?

Moran shakes himself and gets back on the bike. “If I’m right, it’s still a while to the main house, so hold on tight.”

He revs up. They drive down a long gravel road, flanked by a few trees.

It’s a highly secured place, that much he can see. The location itself is already a good safety measure, as is the fence, but he highly doubts those are the only things guarding this place. Maybe Moran should be more careful, especially since he never saw this place before in real life. In fact, driving like this, unimpeded, down this driveaway without encountering any other kind of security seems absurd, unless –

Unless Moriarty is letting them enter in person.

He straightens up abruptly, prompting another snarled warning from Moran. Sherlock adjusts his seat, without thinking about it, because _Christ_ he’s been stupid. Focusing on the boredom of the drive, the annoying pressure of the heat, the complicated path of the route and all the while he lost sight of the most important thing of all.

Moriarty.

Another sharp turn left almost knocks him out of his seat; he corrects his balance. Trees are casting shadows over the road, the flickering light inbetween almost blinding him. His mouth feels dry, his insides cold.

He will be there. It’s only logical. This isn’t like before, no matter what he might have thought before in his stupid mindless complacence. This isn’t another clue. Anyone finding out about this place would have first needed to decipher the clue in the crypt in Switzerland, link that to the house in Sweden, then find the key code for the safe… The chances of anyone being able to do all that without Moran’s personal knowledge is as close to zero as is possible. This is the logical endpoint.

Why the _hell_ didn’t that sink in sooner?

“Stop fidgeting!” Moran snaps at him.

Sherlock adjusts his grip and grits his teeth, mind working in overdrive. He can’t escape, not anymore, not at this speed, he’d break his neck or at least his leg and fat chance of getting away from Moran in this godforsaken nowhere. So he needs to wait until they’ve slowed down, reached their destination and once there he’ll –

He'll…

God _dammit_ , why did he ever let it come this far?

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, trying to _think_. Moran doesn’t know this place; the terrain will be unfamiliar to him, which gives him an advantage – or at least doesn’t put Sherlock at a disadvantage. But is it anything he can use?

He shifts a little on his seat. He’s pressed close enough that he can feel Moran’s gun at his back. One quick movement, and he can grab it – or one too slow movement, and he’s dead.

He breathes in slow and deep, desperately trying to calm down his racing heartbeat. Then there’s another left and suddenly he’s face to face with a large, stately mansion. Moran stops with a turn and swings himself off the bike, dropping the helmet carelessly on the gravel

Sherlock gets off a little slower, staring up at the impressive façade.

A hard yank at his arm – Moran, dragging him along to the front door. It seems silly to try and struggle, and yet the impulse for it is strong. Moriarty might be waiting there, right behind the door, close enough to look him in the eye again –

And that thought, that stupid, _obvious_ thought hits him like a punch and it’s only Moran’s firm grip that keeps him from falling as he stumbles on the loose gravel.

Then there’s the front door. Moran, hand still on Sherlock’s shoulder, carefully reaches for the doorknob. It opens at a touch, and Sherlock breath catches, halts, as Moran steps inside and –

Nothing.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks, voice hoarse.

“There’s no one here.”

Sherlock staggers, breathing out heavily, full of relief and waning adrenaline and - and something else.

Something else?

Something almost like… disappointment, of all things?

Moran takes off his gloves and drops them on a sidetable in the hallway. Sherlock cautiously creeps in, looking around. The entrance hall is massive, a wide staircase heading up to the first floor and several doors on either side presumably leading to other rooms. This house is a palace.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asks. “He isn’t… He isn’t here?”

“No,” Moran says curtly. “And hasn’t been for quite a while too.”

“Ah.” Sherlock turns on the spot, slowly taking in the gilded ceiling decorations, the just-visible hallways above their heads. With the panic and excitement fading, suddenly he feels clearer-headed than ever before.

Another step further. Well, then again, Moriarty _was_ always cautious to the extreme – except, of course, when he wasn’t.

Still.

“Doesn’t necessarily mean we were wrong,” Sherlock says.

“Maybe.” Moran runs his hand through his hair. “Or maybe we’re chasing ghosts, making connections that aren’t really there. Maybe this whole thing’s a fucking joke.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“Don’t I?” He pulls the front door closed. “I don’t know what to think, anymore. This place – it’s fucking huge, it would take weeks, months to properly search it. I don’t – ” He stops, voice unusually angry. “I don’t understand what he wants me to do here.”

Sherlock turns to stare at Moran.

In the two weeks he spent in Moran’s company, he’s never seen the man being anything but calmly certain, practical and pragmatic. This, this _vulnerability_ , is both uncharacteristic and slightly unnerving.

He didn’t think Moran was even capable of doubt.

“He left that clue for a reason,” Sherlock points out. “This is the house on the blueprints, I recognise the layout. Whatever the reason, we’re in the right place.”

“Are you trying to comfort me?” Moran asks, faintly incredulous.

“Just pointing out the obvious,” Sherlock says, irritated.

Moran’s mouth twists, and he looks around again, hands on his hips. “I just don’t – understand what we’re supposed to be doing here. Why here? Did he leave another clue here, or is this just a waiting place, a safe house…”

“We won’t know until we look,” Sherlock says.

Moran leans back against the wall and runs his hands over his face, lets out a long breath. Sherlock shifts onto his other foot, waiting impatiently. For all they know Moriarty’s message might be scrawled in six-foot letters all across the kitchen walls, and he’s aching to look around this place, memorise every detail, every characteristic of it…

But he’s not going anywhere without Moran tailing his heels, no matter how insecure he might seem right now.

“Right,” Moran says, suddenly, as if he heard Sherlock’s thoughts. He slides his hands off, straightens up. “Right. Let’s get settled in first, get a feel of this place. I want to have the whole picture before we start focusing on one spot. What do you think, start outside?”

Sherlock nods. “We can do a tour around the house first, see how big it is exactly, how many rooms there are. Count the windows, perhaps, that way we can – ” He stops.

Moran raises his eyebrows. “What? We can do what?”

 _We_. Not _you_ or _I_ , but _we_.

And the strangest thing is that he didn’t even notice himself doing it.

“We can find out of there are any hidden rooms around the place. Come on,” he adds, heading for the door. Moran follows him.

Sherlock shakes his head, dislodging the sense of unease creeping up on him. It’s only a word.

Doesn’t mean a thing. 

***

The house turns out to be, indeed, massive. The main hall not included, Sherlock counts nine different rooms just on the ground level. At to that the dozen-or-so bedrooms on the first floor, and the several attics tucked just under the roof, and the extensive garden and even the pond-slash-lake at the back of the building…

It’s daunting.

Before he can get into it, however, they decide to go to bed. Which is to say, _Moran_ decides they need sleep and consequently drags Sherlock along, ignoring any protesting and reasonable arguments he might make.

“Ten other bedrooms,” Sherlock tries, as he stumbles after Moran. “Is this really necessary? You could easily just lock me in the one next to yours, give me a bit –”

“Nice try,” Moran says, “but no.”

“I don’t need that much sleep.”

“Despite what you’re trying to pretend, you _are_ human. And still recovering.”

“It’s been over two weeks since you got me out, it’s hardly – ”

Moran punches him.

As far as punches go, it’s almost gentle, but it hits him right in the ribcage and the pain that flares up is intense enough that it makes his eyes water.

“Yeah,” Moran says sarcastically. “Completely healed, I can see.” He hooks his hand underneath Sherlock’s elbow and hauls him up. “Come on, inside.”

He stumbles in and sits down heavily on the bed, hand on his ribs. The pain is starting to fade, but it still winded him.

Moran disappears to the ensuite bathroom. Sherlock takes a deep breath – another painful twinge from his ribs – and gets up. He puts his hand on the door to the hallway, hesitates.

There’s no point, of course Moran would find him. Even if Sherlock did find a bedroom and lock himself in somehow, Moran would still happily break down the door and drag him out again.

Still, he can’t suppress this instinctual need to _escape_.

“Does it really bother you that much?”

He turns. Moran is standing in the bathroom doorway, frowning at him.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock snaps. “Did you think I’m just fighting this out of, what, stubbornness?”

“Well, you are a stubborn bastard.” Moran pulls his shirt over his head and goes to the bed. “What’s the problem?”

“I can’t sleep in the same bed as someone else,” Sherlock says. “I’ve told you this a dozen times before.”

“I don’t understand. Jim never minded.”

“I’m not used to it.”

“Neither was he.” He shakes his head. “What, _exactly,_ is the problem?”

Sherlock stares at him. “I told you – ”

“Yeah, I know, you don’t like sleeping close to someone else, I just meant – If I understand this right, you would be fine if I slept in the chair next to the bed, right?”

“I…” Sherlock frowns. “I don’t know. I think so, yes.”

“So what’s the difference?” Moran asks, sounding genuinely curious.

Sherlock opens his mouth to give him some acerbic answer – then pauses, actually considering the question. “The – nearness, I suppose,” he says after a moment. “It’s distracting.”

“I don’t touch you.”

“I know you don’t,” Sherlock says. “It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

He stays silent.

Moran makes an irritated noise, then sits down on the bed to take off his shoes and socks, frowning.

Sherlock stays where he is, eyes on Moran, trying to make sense of his mood. What he expected, what is _logical_ , is Moran’s usual sneering mockery, the sadistic contempt he has whenever Sherlock shows a sign of weakness.

This is not that. This, is… not exactly compassion but something that looks a little like it. Care, perhaps – except Moran has been caring for him since the moment they met, doing everything he can to keep Sherlock healthy and sane. He’s gotten used to Moran’s form of care, brusque and controlling as it is. But this? This feels… different.

“Look…” Moran drops his shoe and looks up. “I think I get it.”

“Do you?” Sherlock asks coolly.

“You’re registering me as a threat. That’s why your body won’t let you sleep.”

“Well, you are a threat.”

“Not now, I’m not.” He tilts his head, still with that surprisingly open, curious expression on his face. “If anything, it’s the opposite.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply.

“You know, I think you realise that. You’re too clever not to know it.” Moran stands up and starts taking off his jeans. “But it’s an instinct, isn’t? Like you said, nearness. Your senses constantly registering someone else being close, closer than is normal, than is safe.”

“Sound plausible.”

Moran drops his jeans, then gets into bed, stretching out on top of the blankets. “So how do you cope?” he asks, with half a glance at Sherlock. “With the discomfort of it?”

Sherlock shrugs, uneasily. “The way I always do. Either pick it apart or try to focus on other things.”

“Well, that’s obviously not working,” Moran says, eyes closed and hands behind his head and radiating a sort of deeply irritating _smugness_.

“You have a better solution?” Sherlock snaps.

“Yeah.” Moran opens his eyes. “Accept it.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply.

“I’m here,” Moran says, and his eyes are fixed on Sherlock but the look on his face is – is not one he can read. “I’m not going to go anywhere anytime soon. So accept it for what it is.”

And with that he closes his eyes again and rolls onto his side with his back to the centre of the bed, pulling the sheets over him.

Sherlock stays where he is for a moment or two. Then he pushes off the door and starts undressing.

His hands are a little unsteady on his buttons. It’s lucky Moran’s eyes are closed, because he would never let Sherlock hear the end of this –

Or then again, maybe not.

He gets into bed and lies on his back, hands folded over his stomach. Moran is lying close enough that he can feel the warmth coming off him, but they’re not touching. The most noticeable thing right now is Moran’s breathing, slow and regular.

Sherlock closes his eyes. The slow, quiet rush of air might actually be comforting, in other circumstances. If it didn’t belong to a –

A what. A criminal. A murderer?

He breathes in, tries to match his breathing to Moran’s.

He’s always slept in his own room, alone, those few unfortunate weeks in boarding school excepted. The whole process of falling asleep, his mind slowly uncurling, his consciousness drifting into submission, always felt like something deeply personal, intimate. Fragile.

Moran is right, his presence does register as a threat. Something that runs so deep he wasn’t even fully aware of it, but now it’s been mentioned out loud, it makes a worrying amount of sense.

Except Moran has already seen him vulnerable. The state he was in Serbia, when Moran freed him, makes simple sleep pale in comparison. And that’s not all; the way Moran was with him in the airport, finding him a quiet space, giving him time to recover

He might be the enemy, but he is good at dealing with this.

_I’m not going anywhere._

Even with his eyes closed it’s impossible to ignore Moran’s presence. Not just the sound but the warmth of him, the occasional small movements of the mattress as he changes position…

_I’m not a threat._

He’s asleep. He might wake up at the drop of a pin but he’s asleep, now, not watching Sherlock, not guarding him. Not doing anything, just sleeping. Caught up in his own head.

 _Accept it_.

Sherlock turns onto his side and continues matching his breath to Moran’s, concentrating on nothing but that slow in-and-out, until his mind starts to drift.

***

He wakes up slowly.

Bright morning sunlight is coming through the windows. The bed is warm and comfortable. His mouth feels a little dry.

“Morning.”

He blinks, sits up, looks around. Moran is standing in front of the bathroom mirror, shaving.

“Think we’re making progress here,” he says, not looking away from the mirror. “You only kicked me in the shins twice.”

“How long have I slept?” Sherlock asks, voice hoarse.

“Fifteen hours, more or less. Suppose you needed it.”

Sherlock frowns, runs his hand over his face. He remembers nightmares, vague and terrifying as usual, but…

But somehow, he feels more rested than he has in months, if not years.

Sherlock rubs his eyes. “I must have been exhausted.”

“You’ve been exhausted since I rescued you in Serbia, that hasn’t helped you before.” Moran taps shaving cream off his straight razor, then towels his face dry. “I’m going to raid the cupboards for breakfast, and then we continue where we left off.”

“Continue what?” Sherlock asks, sleep-confusion still clinging to his mind.

Moran looks over his shoulder as he’s at the door. “Our fool’s errand;” he says, with a wry twist of his mouth. But before Sherlock can reply he’s gone, his footsteps echoing through the hallway.

Sherlock sits up, slowly.

It’s been ages since he slept this deeply. All because he – what, finally stopped fighting against Moran’s presence?

He rubs his eyes. For over two years now, he’s been under constant stress, constantly watchful, never slipping up, always looking for threats. Sleeping with one eye open, defences up at even the slightest hint of danger.

Except now, he’s got someone else who can do that for him. Which is strange, because Moran is, really, one of the things he should’ve been looking out for. So why is his presence starting to feel…

He shakes his head, dislodging the confusing thoughts, and finds his clothes. Moran has taken the ones he’d worn last night, which is just as well, dusty and sweat-stained as they were. In a move that could be considered both controlling and motherly, he has laid out new ones, Bermuda shorts and a t-shirt. Sherlock crinkles his nose in distaste, but to be fair, once he puts them on, they feel – as with the jumpers and track bottoms – quite comfortable.

He still isn’t sure how to feel about that.

He heads down to where he vaguely remembers Moran pointing out the kitchen. It’s large, clean, and Moran is sitting at the kitchen table, munching toast and looking at his phone.

“Where did you get bread?” Sherlock asks.

“Bread machine. Fuck knows how long the flour has been lying around here, but it’s edible.” Two slices of bread jump out of the toaster with a ping. Moran stands up, puts one slice on his plate and the other on a clean one, and sets that plate in front of Sherlock, next to a steaming mug of tea – again, that odd mixture of control and care.

Sherlock takes a sip, watching Moran.

“What?” he asks, amused, when Sherlock keeps staring.

“You’re very strange.”

“Pot, kettle.” Moran takes a sip from his mug. “So, you have a plan? Or are you just winging it?”

“Both.” Sherlock taps his fingers on the table top, thinking. “The codes so far have all been letter-related, codes messages. If that trends continues, it makes sense they would be in a book. Especially since all places so far have been connected to safety, quiet, hiding…”

“Meaning?” Moran asks, one eyebrow up.

“Library.”

Moran smiles.

“What?” Sherlock asks, annoyed. “You have a better idea?”

“No, carry on.”

“You don’t have any idea which book he might choose? Anything that has any special relevance to you?”

“Nah, not really. Our reading preferences didn’t exactly intersect, for the most part.” He rubs his nose. “Myths and legends, maybe. Or fairytales. Think I saw all twelve parts of the Golden Bough in there, that might be a start. Or the Grimm.”

“That’s something, at least.” Sherlock stands up. “Come on. Might as well get started.”

“Nope.”

“No?” Sherlock repeats, confused.

“No.” Moran gives him a smile. “Cause you’re going to finish breakfast first.”

Sherlock sits down again with a dark look at Moran, who just continues to smile. “I’d never thought I’d say this,” Sherlock says, “but you’re even worse than Mycroft.”

Moran raises his mug in a toast, his smile broadening. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

***

“More notes.”

Sherlock holds out his hand without looking up from the book on the desk. “Coded?”

“Yep.”

“Damn.” He takes the notes and puts them on the pile next to the book.

“Anything there?”

“No. A lot of things marked and underlined, but nothing significant.” Sherlock closes the book with a bang and takes the next one on the pile.

There are more notes scribbled in the margin – Moriarty makes a habit of desecrating every book he gets his hands on, apparently – but they seem to be just comments on the content, something about chemical reactions. He flips through the pages, finds nothing interesting, and puts it aside.

Next one.

“No attempts at decoding the notes?”

“No,” Sherlock says absently, running his finger over another page full of marginalia. “I’ve got no idea where the key would be to decipher them, there are simply too many possibilities. There has to be something else…”

“I’ll keep looking.”

“Hm,” Sherlock says, eyes on the page. There’s something odd about these words, something he’s seen in one of the other books. Those have been put aside already so… “John, give me the – ” 

He breaks off. Mortified.

And when he looks up Moran’s grin is as broad as a shark's.

“Don’t,” Sherlock snaps.

Moran raises his hands, innocently. “Not saying anything. What did you want?”

“The one on black holes.”

Moran hands the book over, still glowing with smug amusement. “Don’t worry, there’s no danger of me calling you _Jim_ by accident.”

“Isn’t there?” Sherlock says, eyes on the book, the notes, anything but Moran’s smug face.

“I see very little similarity between you two.”

“That’s not what he thought.”

There’s a silence. Sherlock looks up.

Uncharted territory. Moran might make a lot of references to his relationship with Moriarty but Sherlock never does. And as a consequence, Moran looks a little surprised. Uncomfortable, too.

Interesting.

“You said it yourself,” Sherlock continues. “We’re alike.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Moran snorts. “But the points where you differ are rather important, from where I’m standing. Found anything?”

“Not yet.” He returns to his books. “Nothing definite, at least.”

“We’re wasting our time,” Moran says, casting a disdainful eye around the library.

“Have a better idea?” Sherlock asks.

 “If you want to go through all the books here we’ll be here til Doomsday.”

“Just the ones that have been recently used.” Sherlock leans back. “After that we can – ”

“We can what?”

“I don’t know.” He looks at Moran. “Shouldn’t you be the one to decide that? This entire hunt was designed for you, after all?”

“You’re here to help me,” Moran says, with uncharacteristic anger. “So help. What’s the point of you otherwise? I might as well – ”

“What?” Sherlock sneers. “Kill me?”

Moran slams down his hands on the desk in front of Sherlock. “ _Find something_ ,” he snarls, and before Sherlock can react Moran straightens up and stalks out of the room, banging the door closed behind him.

Sherlock looks after him, feeling rather blindsided.

Would he, really? Before, Sherlock would have said _no_. Moran is a very controlled person, and as long as it makes sense to keep Sherlock alive and well, he wouldn’t just lose his temper.

But it seems like that patience is starting to flake.

Sherlock rubs his forehead and focuses back on the books. After all, the only way to assure Moran keeps him alive is to prove his usefulness, which means finding Moriarty’s clue.

But his mind isn’t in it. After ten minutes of staring at the same page, he gives in, closing the book with a sigh and going out to find Moran.

He has a tendency to go outside when he’s frustrated, seek open spaces, fresh air. He did it in Switzerland and he did it Sweden, leaving Sherlock behind with very clear instructions about not leaving and then walking out, taking in the air.

This time, however, he doesn’t seem to be anywhere outside. Unless he walked off into the forest surrounding the main plot, but that seems unlikely, giving Sherlock far too much freedom.

Although…

He pauses just outside the porch, eyes up the heavy mud-splattered motorcycle. Moran keeps the keys on him, but this wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had to hotwire a bike. And once he’s on it, he’s got the advantage. There’s no possibility that Moran could keep up with him, not here, not without transport. Sherlock would be untraceable. He could just ride off, go back to Naples, and –

And.

He frowns at the motorbike, chewing his lip. It doesn’t make sense, this. He should be jumping on this opportunity, snatch up the bike without a second’s thought and leave this place as soon as possible. It’s what he would do in other circumstances.

But if he did that, it would mean leaving the house behind, and with it every chance of finding whatever Moriarty left behind here; Moran would rather blow up the entire estate than give Mycroft the opportunity to see this place.

And without that clue…

Sherlock curls his fingers into a fist, then strides back inside and goes up to the first floor, taking the stairs two at the time. From a bedroom at the end, the sound of cupboards opening and metal tinkling betrays Moran presence.

Sherlock hesitates, for one second.

Then he goes up to the room.

It’s another bedroom, thoroughly ransacked already: the linen closet open, plundered, sheets and pillowcases and duvets spread around like a whirlwind caught them, and Moran sitting on the bed, staring unseeingly ahead.

Sherlock knocks at the open door.

Moran sighs. “Come on in,” he says. “And don’t worry, I’ve stopped sulking.”

“Since when does threatening murder falls under sulking?” Sherlock asks, but he goes in all the same.

“I don’t deal well with frustration.” Then he frowns. “No, wait, that’s a fucking lie. I deal _excellently_ with frustration. I just don’t like not knowing where I am.”

“Being helpless.”

“Basically, yeah.” He pats the bed and Sherlock sits down next to him, looks at the embroidered pillow case in his hands – A and F, not JM.

“Found anything of interest?” Sherlock asks.

“Plenty. Just nothing that looks like a clue. Or that was left on purpose.” He puts the pillow case aside and leans back on his hands, closes his eyes. “Maybe I’m just supposed to wait here until he comes back.”

“Then he would give some sort of sign as well, wouldn’t he? Telling you to stay put.”

“Maybe. I don’t know, I just – ” He pulls a face, rubbing his eyes. “I worry I won’t understand. That he overestimated me, that I’m – and that’s stupid, because he _knows_ me. Better than I know myself. I just need to trust him, that he knows what…” He trails off.

Sherlock stares at him.

“Sorry.” Moran drops his hands, straightens up. “Getting whiny. Blame the décor, all that gilt is enough to get anyone down. He told me it was a bit gaudy but Christ, bits of this place make Versailles look sobre.”

“You’ve really never been here before?” Sherlock asks, curious.

“Here? No. He told me about it, and he stayed here while I was working in Napoli, but I never came along.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Moran blinks. “No idea. Suppose he needs a place wholly to himself, maybe. Or there was something here he didn’t want me to see.”

“Doesn’t that bother you? That he kept secrets like that?”

“No,” Moran says, looking a little surprised. “Course not. I mean, even in the best possible circumstances I can never really understand him, I know that. Of course there are things about him that I can’t touch, can’t reach. Can’t comprehend. That’s just the way it is, _he_ is. And I wouldn’t particularly have him otherwise, so…” He shrugs. “His secrets are part of him.”

Sherlock looks away.

_\- honesty, Sherlock, just this once, stop with this damned secrecy and –_

“Doesn’t mean this isn’t fucking weird, mind you,” Moran adds.

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Knowing that he’s been here, that I’m sleeping in the bed he slept in, eating the food he put there…” He shakes his head. “But he wants me here. That much I’m sure of. The code led to the blueprints and the blueprints are here.”

“Now we just need to find out _why_ he wanted you to come here.”

“Exactly.” Moran stretches, then gets up and takes two boxes from the ground. He hands one to Sherlock. “What do you think? If it’s about calm and safe spaces, I reckon a bedroom is a good choice. Right?”

“Possibly.”

Sherlock pulls out the top box, opens it. Inside is a collection of jewelry: brooches, necklaces, bracelets, all expensive-looking to Sherlock’s trained eye, but thrown haphazardly together as if they’re nothing but cheap shiny baubles.

He regards the heap for a moment, then sighs and picks up an emerald-and-gold decorated brooch from the top layer.

Might as well try.

***

They spend days looking for clues. First in the bedrooms, then in the garden immediately surrounding the house, and the study, the attic and the basement. After that they go wider, into the trees surrounding the garden, the sheds, the fence. One particularly sunny afternoon Moran even puts on diving gear and goes exploring the pond behind the house. But there’s nothing. Anything they do find is so vague or strange that it’s even less helpful than actually finding nothing. It’s deeply disheartening.

Moran’s outburst on the first day remains a one-off, but his mood has changed compared to how he was in Sweden. More subdued, thoughtful; more than once Sherlock finds him staring in the distance, a book or a trinket in his hands, a faraway look in his eyes, as if he froze mid-search. Even his attitude towards Sherlock is changing: the biting sarcasm and contempt, while still present, definitely seems less pronounced. Instead, there’s something else, something Sherlock can’t quite put a name to but which feels, in a strange way, almost comfortable.

Which all changes nothing to the fact that they’re apparently stuck.

Sherlock drops the book he’s been holding – the text isn’t sinking in anyway – and tilts his head back, stretching his neck.

Maybe he shouldn’t be so eager to find something. He still vividly recalls those few moments of absolute panic when he thought Moriarty would be here. Wherever the next clue leads them, it’s likely to be the end of the road. Does he really want to go there?

On the other hand, he still hasn’t been able to fully justify the disappointment he felt when he’d found out that Moriarty wasn’t here. The only rational reaction would be relief, and yes, he had felt relieved, but… But not just that.

The thought of facing Moriarty again had excited as much as terrified him.

He stands up and goes to the window, watching the sun set over the lake behind the house.

In a way, it’s understandable. Not that anyone else would understand, John or Molly or even Mycroft, but to him it makes sense. Moriarty is more like him than anyone else he ever met, meeting him at every point, never faltering, never being left behind. A mind where the wheels turns like his do, seeing the same patterns, taking the same leaps…

He’d seen that the moment he first met Moriarty’s eyes. The similarity. And yet, the man also remained a mystery. He’d never found anything on Moriarty, no background, no childhood, no personal life, nothing but that name; he might as well be a ghost.

Or at least, that used to be the case, before he met Moran.

Sherlock leans against the window. He can just about see Moran outside, sitting on the porch. He went out after another fruitless search, expression broody, not exactly aggressive but definitely not in a good mood.

It’s strange to imagine them together. In the weeks Sherlock has been in Moran’s captivity, he’s started to know the man a little, his personality, his preferences, the way his mind works. He’s strange, yes, contradictory, unexpected in many ways, but, essentially, still a normal person. And yet he’s Moriarty’s…

Moriarty’s _what_ , exactly? Almost a month in Moran’s company and he still can’t fully grasp their connection. It isn’t like John and him, no matter how some things Moran talks about do remind him of that. As for other possibilities, he doesn’t really have a point of reference. Mycroft has never let anyone that close to him, nor has Adler, as far as he knows. And the idea that Moriarty and Moran might have a relationship, a normal one, like his parents or John and one of his girlfriends or anything like that, is frankly ludicrous.

What, then?

Sherlock frowns for a moment, then pushes off the window and goes out, to the porch.

Moran is sitting on the stone tiles, back against the brick wall, bottle in his hand. Morosely staring at the setting sun. Sherlock sits down next to him.

“I’m not used to going this long without seeing him, you know,” Moran says quietly. Drunk, maybe, a little bit of slurring in his consonants, but not very noticeable. “Even when I’m away on a mission, he always – he always finds a way to contact me. Somehow.”

“Isn’t that what this is?” Sherlock asks. “These clues, the riddles… A way of connecting to you?”

Moran looks up, grey eyes still sharp despite the smell of alcohol hanging around him. “Maybe,” he says, after a moment. “You think so?”

“Why should it matter what I think?”

Moran’s mouth twists. “Because despite what I may have said before, you two really are astonishingly alike in some ways.”

Sherlock looks away and Moran slides down a little, legs spread, fingers loose around the neck of the bottle.

“Not that much,” Sherlock says, after a moment. “Seeing as you can’t stand me.”

“Hm, that’s true,” Moran says, with a faint smile.

“Whereas Moriarty…”

Moran rolls his head, eyes back on Sherlock. “ _Whereas Moriarty_ what?” he asks lazily.

“He – you – ” Sherlock presses his lips together in frustration. Once again he’s stuck, imagination simply refusing to give anything. “You were… friends?”

“Friends? No.”

“Then what?”

“I – don’t know. I don’t know the word for it. I don’t know if there even is a word for it.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand how it – how it could work.”

“Why not?” Moran asks.

“You lived together?”

“Yeah. For years. Longer than you and Watson.”

“And you…” Sherlock pauses, tries to gather his thoughts, grabs one question from the gathering throng. “You had sex?”

“Why is that so unbelievable?”

_Because I don’t –_

“Just because you don’t?”

There’s an odd silence.

“Plenty of people don’t have sex, you know,” Moran says casually. “Because they hate it. Because they’re indifferent to it. Because someone fucked it over permanently for them. It isn’t as unusual as people seem to think. But you…” He tilts his head, eyes uncomfortably intense. “I never quite understood which category you fall in.”

“The indifferent one.”

“Well, that’s a lie.” Moran runs his thumb idly over the mouth of the bottle. “You hide it well, repress it, but it’s not – I’ve had people who’re indifferent and they’re not you.”

“Moriarty?”

Moran laughs. “ _No_. No, god knows he’s got a whole lot of feelings and opinions about sex but _indifferent_ isn’t one of them.”

Sherlock stays silent for a while, then bursts out, “I just don’t understand why he’d – ”

“Because you’re the same. Always looking for distractions.” Moran shrugs. “It wasn’t easy, I can tell you that. And even then, even when we did start to have sex, it took – months, years even, before he could really let go.”

“Then why? Why go to all that trouble?”

“Because it was a release.” Moran smiles, delicately. “But you wouldn’t understand, of course.”

Sherlock lowers his head, avoiding the knowingness in Moran’s smile. “It’s just – physical.”

“It’s a way to turn all the thoughts off.”

Sherlock looks up sharply. Moran gives him another of those smiles. “And one that doesn’t rely on dealers and has no dangers of addiction – well, I don’t know, maybe in a way, yes. But not in the same way heroin does, I imagine.”

“I never needed it.”

“How would you know, if you’ve never tried?” Moran takes a deep swig from his bottle, then stares thoughtfully at the lake in front of him. “You know, I tried to get a bet going with him. About you and Adler, how long it would last before she popped your cherry. He just laughed in my face, didn’t even consider the possibility.” He pauses. “ _The Virgin_.”

Sherlock stays silent, unable to think of something to say.

“Your John,” Moran says suddenly. “He’s got a girlfriend.”

“No doubt. He’s had a lot of those.”

“Serious. Living-together serious.”

Sherlock frowns. “He’s moved out of 221B?”

Moran snorts a laugh. “What do you think he’d do, keep pining?”

“You did.”

Moran’s smile dies a little. “I don’t think he’s dead.”

“Maybe you should.”

He shakes his head, taking the bottle back. “Nah. Jim’s like a weed. He keeps growing, no matter what.”

 _Jim_.

He still isn’t used to hearing that. Not just the name but the way he says it, the familiarity of it. The intimacy.

Sherlock closes his eyes and tips his head back. There’s something bothering him, something niggling at the back of his mind. Like he’s missing something obvious. The kind of thing John would mock him for not realising.

All the evidence together, then. Moran, who has sex with Moriarty, who has been living with him for years, talks about him like he knows him, _says_ he knows him, worships him, is devoted even beyond death, who has shaped his whole life around him, who - 

\- whose life has no meaning without him.

Sherlock opens his eyes. “You love him.”

Moran doesn’t react. He just keeps staring ahead, fingers loosely holding the bottle. Too drunk to form a reply, maybe. Or maybe he didn’t even hear the question, blocked it out, ignoring it the way he sometimes -

“Yeah,” Moran says hoarsely.

He looks up at Sherlock, eyes surprisingly sober, and adds, “But I doubt it’s reciprocated.”

Sherlock stays silent.

His initial reply of _of course it isn’t, Moriarty is incapable of love_  - well, even he knows that’s not a good choice right now. Besides, if what Moran keeps saying about Moriarty is all true, then Sherlock’s idea of the man is rather far from the truth. Who knows, maybe he is capable of loving someone after all. Like -

Sherlock tilts his head back, looks up at the stars. Remembers a different night, a shock blanket around his shoulders, the sky blotted out by air pollution.

“Is it hard?” Sherlock asks. “Loving him?”

“Yes,” Moran says promptly. “And no. Because it – it feels like the most natural thing there is, to me. It can be difficult, but - It’s worth it. It’s all worth it.”

“Because you love him.”

“Yes.”

“And he…”

Moran shakes his head. “I don’t know what he feels, or thinks. But he – I don’t know. But it’s got to mean something, right?” He looks up at Sherlock, oddly lost. “He let me into his life. He let me close, that’s got to… That’s got to mean something.”

“It does,” Sherlock says, frowning. “He wouldn’t just give up his privacy, his control to anyone.”

Moran nods, slowly. Not particularly happy, or even relieved, simply – accepting.

Sherlock shakes his head. “I thought I knew him,” he mutters. “I really did. But everything you say about him…”

“Maybe I’m lying,” Moran says with a smile.

“Are you?”

“No.”

Sherlock closes his eyes again, mind full of images.

Moriarty. Moriarty at the pool, showing off, eyes on Sherlock filled with amusement, fascination, hunger. Moriarty on Sherlock’s sofa, calm, mocking, superior. And Moriarty on the rooftop –

_\- you’re me –_

And Moriarty in Sweden, spending whole days doing nothing but taking walks and reading and having sex, Moriarty in the basement in Switzerland, being locked up with Moran in a space barely twenty square feet and not minding, and Moriarty in London, living together with –

“It doesn’t add up,” Sherlock says, frustrated. “I just can’t – can’t see how your idea of him and mine can be about the same person.”

“He plays a role,” Moran says. “He shows off, he grandstands, he playacts to scandalise people, to get a reaction out of them. He hides who he really is. But sometimes, it breaks through. Even with you.”

\- _all my life I’ve been looking for distractions –_

Moran gets up, laboriously, resting one warm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he says. “You’ll find out when we find him.”

“When?” Sherlock asks, hiding his shiver. “Or _if_?”

Moran hesitates for a moment.

Then he says, very decidedly, “ _When_.”

***

The manor is a copy of an original Palladio near Venice, now in ruins. There’s a desk somewhere in a second-floor study which is filled with architectural drawings, references, sketches of the original, with scribbled remarks in Italian in the margins – _not_ Moriarty’s handwriting.

Sherlock has been poring over them the entire morning, ever since Moran dropped them in front of his nose, in the hope he might discover a discrepancy, a secret room, something of use.

But there’s nothing. He can’t even determine when the house was built – sometime in the last century and a half, but beyond that it could be anytime, by anyone. He can’t even find out if anyone lived here before Moriarty took over, or if he had it built himself.

It’s frustrating. Even apart from the fact that they’re stuck again, that this is a problem he can’t solve – he’s in Moriarty home, for God’s sake, this should be a goldmine of information, like Baker Street apparently was to Moriarty, but…

But he can’t see anything.

He puts the papers back and heads down two flights of stairs, to where Moran is making his own attempt at document analysis.

“We’re missing something,” Moran says as Sherlock comes down the last few stairs, not looking up from the papers surrounding him.

“Obviously. Any idea what?”

“No.” Moran hops onto his feet and stretches. “God, I’m stiff. And starving.” He frowns. “Which might become a problem, the freezers are starting to run empty.”

“Where’s the closest village?”

“About half an hour drive, I think. But it’s risky – it isn’t a touristy area and we’re going to stand out.” He looks down at his notes, spread out across the floor from the door to the start of the staircase. “I don’t really fancy driving all the way back to L’Aquila just to get some food, but I don’t think we’ll have a choice. What we have can only last a day or two more, I reckon.”

“Maybe that’s enough.” Sherlock carefully picks his way across the notes decorating the marble floor. “Missing something, you said?”

“Yeah. I mean - It should be hidden away, yeah, sure. But I’m supposed to find it. Without help, even.” He puts his hands on his hips, glaring at his notes. “It should be obvious to me.”

“I’ve told you, it’s likely related to something he’s said, done, something he’d expect you to remember…”

“Maybe he overestimated me.” Moran turns around, frowning. “This isn’t like Sweden. I never set foot in this place, he hardly ever talked about it. How the hell am I supposed to know – ”

A loud whine interrupts them. Moran curses and runs to the front door.

“What’s happening?”

“Intruders,” Moran grunts. He pulls open a panel next to the door, revealing a row of small screens. On one of them, two people can be seen, creeping around the outer edge of the terrain. “ _Shit_.”

“Mycroft’s men?” Sherlock asks, leaning in closer to get a look.

“Or others. I have a lot of enemies. Shit _fuck_ ,” he adds, then kicks the door in frustration.

“What do we do, fight?”

“Here? No. No way of telling how much others are coming. Goddamnit, how did they – ” He breaks off, eyebrows knitted together, expression furious.

Sherlock nods, slowly. “They found this place. They could be surrounding us as we speak. Which means…”

“Escape, yeah.” Moran slams the panel shut. “Get your things, we’re leaving.”

“Running away?”

“Tactical retreat.” Moran looks up at him, expression dead serious. “This search is on hold until we shake whoever the fuck’s on our tail.”

 

 

 

 


	6. Berlin

Five minutes after the alarm started blaring, Sebastian joins Holmes in the hallway, two bags slung over his shoulder, gun hidden underneath his jacket, and mind racing.

They haven't been followed, that much he's sure of - and even if they had, why wait for two weeks before making their move? It's obviously not an accident that they're here, the two he saw on the CCTV were clearly breaking in, cautious and wary. But why? And how? And - 

Questions for later. 

Holmes is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, pacing restlessly. “Back door?” he asks as soon as Sebastian gets down.

Sebastian gives him a nod, then takes the lead, going past the staircase, into the pantry and to the small door set into the back of the building, which comes out not too far away from the bigger garden exit. Unnecessary precaution, if the CCTV is accurate, but he’s not about to take any risks just now.

They make their way slowly in the general direction of the front gate, where according to the cameras two men are waiting. But might there be others? The alarm system is supposed to be accurate, but it’s obviously been ages since Jim has last been here. What if something happened in the meantime? Is it still reliable?

Is he walking straight into his death?

He looks over his shoulder. Holmes is two steps behind, crouched over like Sebastian is, following his lead with remarkable little protest. Playing safe in case those men outside are after him and Holmes is just a disposable extra, maybe, but it’s still strange how easily he’s going along with this. Handy, though; he  _really_ doesn't have time to play a game of who's-got-the-biggest right now.

He leads Holmes away from the house, hiding behind the trees lining the gravel road, following its path without being exposed. It doesn't take that long before they take a wide left and spot two small figures in the distance - they’ve already progressed farther into the estate than he’d expected.

He takes shelter behind a small shed and gestures Holmes along, then goes down onto one knee, dropping his bags onto the ground.

“How are we going to get past them?” Holmes asks, back pressed against the shed, looking just around the corner.

Sebastian pulls the rifle from the extra bag, leans around the corner, takes aim –

“No,” Holmes says, one hand on Sebastian’s arm.

“Ah,” he says, still sighting down the barrel. “This is where you draw the line, is it?”

“If you kill them, this ends here and now,” Holmes says, voice low and intent.

“Fine,” he says, and lowers the rifle.

“Good.” Holmes looks over his shoulder, back at the intruders. “We need to – ”

Sebastian pulls the trigger. The bang reverberates through his bones, but he doesn’t give himself time to recover, just reloads, aims, shoots again. 

He lowers the rifle, breathing hard.

Holmes straightens up, furious. “I _told you_ – ”

“And I listened,” Sebastian snaps. He hands Holmes a pair of binoculars. “They’re still alive. Check for yourself, if you don’t believe me.”

Holmes snags the binoculars from his hands. “From this distance, there’s no way…” Then he trails off. “His foot?”

“The one on the right, yeah. Couldn’t take much time for the other one so I aimed for the knee. Shattered, probably. Doubt they’ll walk again anytime soon. But at least they’re alive.” He claps Holmes on the shoulder. “Next time, be more precise.”

“At this distance…” Holmes mutters. “How did you – ”

“I never mentioned, did I?” Sebastian says as he puts the rifle carefully back into the bag. “I wasn’t just any common gun-for-hire when I started working for Jim. I was a _specialist_. Now come on.” He hauls the bags over his shoulder. “We need to leave.”

“Where are we going?”

“Anywhere the quickest plane we can get takes us.”

“Rome?”

“Yes,” he says, between gritted teeth. “Rome.” 

***

The drive isn’t very pleasant. Every car that follows them, every other biker he can see, even random pedestrians they cross are all potential threats. He’s constantly aware of the handgun strapped underneath his armpit, continually ready to let go of the wheel and shoot.

But nothing happens.

“Maybe it was a fluke,” Holmes says when they finally arrive at the airport. “Maybe you’ve just shot and crippled a pair of trespassing teenagers.”

“You don’t trespass on that terrain by accident,” Sebastian says curtly.

“Maybe. What are you going to do with the weapons?”

“Leave them.” He swings the bag down and discreetly pulls the gun from his holster. “No way we’re getting those past security, not on this little time.”

“So we’ll be unarmed.”

Sebastian shoots Holmes a grim smile. “I’m never unarmed, me.”

Holmes rolls his eyes, but falls into step behind him as they head into the airport’s entrance hall. “What about – what about her?”

“Adler?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll risk it,” Sebastian says. “Not much choice, right? If we’re lucky, we’ll be out of here because she notices us.” They pass the big glass doors and he looks up reflexively, eyeing the cameras wearily.

“I thought you had a way to deal with those?” Sherlock asks.

“I do, but it’s retroactive,” he says. “I can’t block them in real time. If someone is watching right now…”

“Then what?”

“Then I’m in trouble. But not you, of course.” He glances at Sherlock, who looks pretty calm, all things considered. “Must be strange, running from your own brother.”

Holmes huffs. “This isn’t the first time I’ve evaded my brother’s horde.”

“First time you did so accompanied by a known criminal, though.”

“You’d be surprised,” Holmes says, with a faint smile. 

“I doubt that. Come on, bathroom.”

They go in. There’s no one else in, so Sebastian blocks the door, then drops his bag and searches for the folder with the documents.

“We already have fake ID's,” Holmes says.

“These are burners,” Sebastian says, straightening up. “Basic ID’s, enough to get us to a cache somewhere else.” He gets out a card and a narrow knife, then works it gently between the plastic edges. “I should’ve thought of this earlier.”

“Pursuers?”

“No, extra identities for you, I mean. We’re still stuck on the one we used to get out of Sweden, which is a risk. Ah, there.” He pulls out the stand-in picture and carefully starts to work in a mugshot of Holmes.

“Where did you get those pictures, anyway?” Holmes asks.

“Police database.” He gives Holmes a brief, mocking look. “How did you manage to get arrested three times in a row?”

“Annoyed the wrong DI one time too many.” 

“I’m assuming this was before your boytoy made DI himself, then?”

“My – what?”

“Lestrade.” He gives the picture one last minute push, then starts resealing the plastic. “Practically panting to give you whatever you want, that one.”

“Lestrade needs someone to solve his difficult cases, I provide,” Holmes says, sounding a little insulted. “That’s all that is.”

“Yeah, right. There we go.” He holds the ID up to the light, then nods. “If anyone asks, you’re a Serbian businessman called Johann Marinovich, on his way to a conference.”

“And you?”

“Your business partner. Don’t worry.” He flashes Holmes a grin. “I’m not letting you out of my sights.”

“No handcuffs this time around, though.”

“Say _pretty please_ and I might just get them out again for you.” Sebastian pulls his shirt over his head.

“What are you doing?”

“Changing clothes into something a little more suitable for the role.” He unbuttons his trousers. “You should, too.”

“I doubt your clothes are going to fit me decently.”

“They won’t.” He drops to his knee and pulls out a jacket, shirt and pair of trousers out of the bottom of the bag. “Now, this I did foresee. Here, for you.”

Holmes takes the clothes, looking surprised and more than a little pissed off. “You kept me in track bottoms and Bermuda shorts for weeks and all the while you had _this_ in your bags?”

“Yep.” He takes out his own set of clothes and starts dressing. 

Holmes seems to hesitate. Sebastian can see him stare for a moment, eyes running over Sebastian in a way that in anyone else he'd read either as  _intimidated_ or  _lustful_ , but both those options aren't exactly applicable to Holmes.

Then he shakes himself and turns his back to Sebastian in an adorably insecure display of modesty, and starts undressing as well. “If anyone is seriously tracking us, just a change of clothes won’t make us invisible," he says as he pulls the trousers on.

“I’m aware.” Sebastian finishes buttoning his shirt, then loops the tie around his throat, wincing at the discomfort of the tight collar after weeks of running around with his throat bare. “But it’ll give ‘em pause, at least. Now,” he adds, as Holmes finishes buttoning up his shirt. “I’m assuming you know the drill. Look focused, superior – ”

“Impatient, annoyed and rude, yes, I know, you think this is the first time I’ve posed as one-percenter?” Holmes says impatiently, knotting his tie with a surprising amount of skill.

Sebastian gestures grandly towards the door. “Well, then. Impress me.”

Holmes huffs and pushes the door open, nose in the air. Sebastian hauls the bag over his shoulder and follows him out, senses on high alert.

Plenty of potentials around, in a place like this. Those badly-suited men could just as easily be trained killers as travelling representatives, and even the tourists in kitschy T-shirts could be assassins who are particularly dedicated to their disguises.

His eyes flick to the camera again, one red blinking eye pointing at them. He can deal with people on this tail, whether they’re Mycroft’s or someone else’s; it’s hardly the first time he’s been under threat like that. But the fact that it forced them to come here, in _her_ territory…

Or maybe he’s wrong and his info is outdated; for all he knows she’s gone back across the Atlantic.

“How sure are we they that they were Mycroft’s men?” Holmes asks suddenly.

“Not at all, really,” Sebastian says, dragging his eyes away from the camera. “They might just as well be after me as you. Did they look like your brother’s men to you?”

“I thought you could spot one of Mycroft’s agents miles away?” Holmes asks sarcastically.

“Manner of speaking. What do you think?”

“Not sure,” Holmes says, frowning. “They looked ready to use lethal force, which seems – ”

“Your brothers’ agents would, if he thought someone had kidnapped his baby brother.”

“You think he knows?”

“He certainly knows you’ve dropped off the radar.” Sebastian looks over his shoulder. Someone quickly looks away, but that could just as easily be someone caught perving as a pursuer. “If it was just you doing all this he would’ve found you again by now, so that means someone else is involved, hiding you from him. It’s quite likely he thinks he’s setting up a rescue attempt.”

“And the alternative?” Holmes asks, as his head turns to keep a passing man in view – so he’s being watchful too, good.

“The alternative?” They head down to the VIP ticket desk. “Someone’s gotten wind of me being around here, relatively alone and unprotected, and thinks they can use me as a way of getting Jim. Ironically.”

“I thought you said you were invisible?”

“To your lot, yes. To the – well, let’s say the _upper echelons_ of the criminal word I’m fairly well-known as Moriarty’s enforcer.” He glances at Holmes. “With the reputation that comes with it, so usually they know better than to engage. But…”

“But?”

“The trial. Pretty much changed everything. Now shush.” They step to the girl behind the ticket desk. “Can we make this quick?” he asks, in his best arrogant-rude-patronising voice. Next to him, Holmes turns and leans against the counter, looking supremely bored and not even giving the poor girl as much as a glance.

Credit where credit’s due, the receptionist keeps her smile and processes them relatively quickly. He snatches the tickets from the desk without so much as a _thank you_ , and Holmes straightens up with an audible annoyed sigh.

He _is_ good.

They head to the gates, shoulder to shoulder. “Berlin, then,” Holmes says as soon as they’re out of earshot of the receptionist. “How’s your German?”

“Worse than my French, better than my Portuguese.”

“Do you speak every European language?” Holmes asks, irritated.

“Close enough.” Sebastian raises his eyebrow. “You don’t?”

“Not yet. Look out, now.”

Sebastian drops his bag onto the conveyer belt heading to the scanner, then goes through the metal detector. It doesn’t make a sound, the guards barely sparing him a glance. He collects the bag as it comes out again and waits, one hand in his pocket, for Holmes to come through.

Holmes is frowning, slightly. But he waits to speak until they’re well out of earshot of the guards. “You’re wearing a metal watch,” he says, out of the corner of his mouth. “Why didn’t – ”

Sebastian digs the disruptor out of his pocket and holds it up. “Messes up the signal.”

“How – ”

Sebastian quickly slips it back into his pocket before Holmes can snatch it from his hands. “Don’t know, don’t care. All I know is that with this, I can theoretically smuggle whatever I want through a detector.”

“And have you?” Holmes asks, looking a little impressed despite himself.

“Just a knife.” He looks up at the camera again, which seems to point straight at them.

Technically, they’re safe now, behind the first security check. It’s hard to get through to here without any preparation, and there’s no way anyone could know beforehand they’d come here; hell, even he didn’t before this morning.

But Adler _knows people_ , and it’s only logical that she’d cultivate a contact in the airport, to keep her informed of all the interesting comings and goings. Every guard here could be secretly on her client list. Maybe it’s only a matter of time before they’re pulled out of the crowd and put in a quiet room somewhere to answer some tough questions…

“Here we are,” Holmes says, quietly. “Moment of truth.”

Customs.

They split up, Holmes to the left desk and Sebastian to the right. He holds his breath as he hands in his ID – if it’s going to happen, it’ll be now.

His hand edges to his hip, the knife against his ankle suddenly feeling oddly heavy.

The guard peers at the card. Then he looks up at Sebastian, eyes lidded. He stares for a moment –

Then shrugs and pushes back the ID. “Enjoy your flight.”

“Thanks.” He tucks the card back in his wallet and heads in the general direction of their gate, trying his damned best to keep his triumph and relief from showing on his face. He can’t let his guard down just like that, not until they’ve well and proper left Italy; but the simple fact that they got through…

Or rather, he did. Sebastian pauses and turns, looking over his shoulder. Holmes is still at the customs deck, tapping his fingers on the till. But before Sebastian has even time to feel any kind of worry, the customs officers hands back Holmes’ ID;

“ _Grazie_ ,” Holmes says, in a pitch-perfect irritated, impatient, arrogant tone. He snatches the card back with obvious annoyance and strides on, going past Sebastian without even glancing at him.

Sebastian falls into step next to him and raises an eyebrow. “Enjoying the role?” he asks as they head to the gate.

“What role?”

Sebastian glances at him. Holmes returns his look and smirks.

Jokes. Who’d’ve thought the bastard had it in him.

***

 _Ping_.

_“Meine Damen und Herren, wir beginnen jetzt mit dem Anflug auf Berlin Brandenburg, und bitten Sie deshalb Ihren Sitzgurt wieder zu schließen und Ihren Sitz in eine aufrechte Position zu bringen.”_

Sebastian lazily stretches, then obediently clicks his safety belt shut. A moment later Holmes sits down next to him.

“Turned the onboard toilet into an emergency beacon?” Sebastian asks.

“That would interfere with their flight systems.”

“No one ever believes that.” He settles back in his chair as the plane descends and the familiar sensation of his stomach floating up in his torso sets in.

Once again, he tracks his eye over the other passengers. The two-hour flight gave him plenty of opportunity to study them, but there was nothing that drew his attention. In business class it’s as per usual fairly quiet, and none of the suited men and women here pinged his sensors. But with the holiday season approaching, economy has filled up with families to join its usual fare of backpackers, adventurous pensioners and underpaid businessmen. Both he and Holmes made several visits to the bathroom at the back of the plane, taking the opportunity to quickly scan their fellow travelers. But none of them showed anything they could describe as _suspicious behavior._

With a jolt, the plane lands. A few moments later the plane stops moving and around them, people start getting up. Sebastian gets his bag from the overhead compartment, makes a show of looking at his watch. Holmes just rolls his eyes and starts pushing past people, not waiting his turn. Sebastian, hiding his smile, follows in the trail of indignant mutters and angry looks Holmes leaves behind.

Once again they pass by customs without even a hint of trouble. Holmes holds his step in a little, following Sebastian’s lead as they head out of the arrivals hall, a row of taxis on their left, a multi-storied parking lot on their right. 

Sebastian hesitates, then goes to the right.

“You've got transport, then?” Holmes asks when they reach the elevator.

“I'm sure we've got something here, just give me a moment...” Sebastian briefly closes his eyes, calls up his mental map. Berlin, let’s see… The images dance before his eyes as he crosses the imaginary hallway, door after door, colour after colour, until he reaches Europe and Germany and - 

- he opens his eyes again. “Third floor, place fifteen,” he says as he presses the button on the elevator.

“How do you know?” Holmes asks once they're inside, safe from prying eyes.

“Jim drilled me. Made a sort of – mental representation, 3D thing, then forced me to repeat it over and over again until I could recite perfectly.”

“A mind palace,” Holmes says, sounding surprised.

“What?”

“Linking memories to mental places, making it easier to remember them, to navigate your own memories… It’s a mnemonic system, fairly well known.” Holmes snorts. “Although most people don’t take it nearly far enough, of course.”

“Ah,” Sebastian says, smiling faintly. “I’m guessing most people have a memory room, or something?”

“I need something big enough to put everything,” Holmes says, sulking.

“No doubt.” Sebastian eyes him. “So if it’s fairly well-known, why did you react so surprised?”

“What makes you think I was surprised?”

“Your face,” Sebastian say, amused. “You’re not nearly as hard to read as you think you are, you know. At least, not to me.”

Holmes doesn’t reply for a few moments. Then he says, “I was _surprised_ because I would have expected Moriarty to use the same kind of system to remember things, but not for him to fend it off to others.” He gives Sebastian a look. “Did – did he use it?”

“A memory palace? Not that I know.” They go out onto the third floor of the parking and start walking down the row of cars. “Something comparable, maybe.”

“Comparable? How?”

“Stop prying. Here we are,” he adds, and stops in front of a black Audi.

“You have keys?” Holmes asks.

“Nope.” He digs into his inside pocket and pulls out a small roll of metal. “‘Scuse me.”

Holmes watches him as he unrolls it into a long narrow strip of metal, then sinks it between the window and the door. “What’s the point of having a car if you don’t have the keys?”

“If I had the keys of every vehicle we had around the world, I’d need a wheelbarrow to carry them all. And at least this one won’t be missed if it’s nicked.” The door clicks and Sebastian opens it with a flourish. “After you.”

Holmes rolls his eyes, but he gets in. “Where are we going precisely?” he asks, as Sebastian gets in as well and closes the door behind him.

“A safehouse,” Sebastian says.

“Hiding?”

“Regrouping,” he says. He turns the keys, firing up the engine, then adds, with a grim smile, “And finding out who these fuckers are.”

***

It’s well after midnight when they finally abandon the car and go the rest of the way by foot. The exact location of the safehouse is still firmly entrenched in his memory, but his grasp on the actual streets of Berlin is a bit shakier. And it’s less suspicious to linger on foot than by car.

He leads them away from the city centre and into a neighbourhood that’s a little less populated. Not that it’s deserted: the all-night shops, fastfood joints and clubs and cafés seem to attract a fair amount of young people, in relatively little clothes, hanging around smoking and laughing.

They stand out, still in their suits, Sebastian’s bag slung over his shoulder, travel-weary and tense. Not casual enough for tourists, but too insecure and wary for locals.

It makes him edgy, instincts nagging him. His eyes keep going to the windows in the upper floors of the buildings they pass, looking for the telltale rifle butt sticking out, light reflecting off a scope…

“So you’re a sniper?”

“Hm?” Sebastian tears his eyes away from an innocuous attic window. “Yeah. Well, I used to be.”

“You’re very accurate,” Holmes says.

“Unofficial record holder in the army,” he says absently. “My regiment loved me.”

“Proud of that, are you?”

“Not particularly. It’s just a thing I can do. One that comes in useful.”

Holmes stays quiet for a moment. “So that’s why Moriarty hired you, initially?” he asks eventually. “He needed a sniper and he found the best, does seem like him.”

Sebastian makes a non-committal sound.

“So was it you that lay in wait when he gave me those puzzles?” Holmes asks, slowly, as if he’s putting the pieces together as he speaks. “That woman in the car, the man in the square…”

“Does it matter?” Sebastian asks, feeling strangely irritated.

“Shan. They found her body afterwards, bullet hole in the head. Did you – ”

Sebastian stops and turns to Holmes. “Look,” he says, with forced patience. “I get that this is intriguing for you, but we have more important things to worry about and frankly, your nattering distracts me, so can you just – ” And he breaks off, seeing Sherlock’s eyes go over his shoulder and widen just at the same time as something hard presses into the middle of his back.

His hand edges to his gun – if he’s just quick enough, beat the arm away and turn and –

\- and _nothing_ , because his gun is still in a bin in Rome. Shit.

They haven’t shot yet, though. Meaning –

“Miss Adler sends her regards,” a warm female voice says behind him.

He only just catches his groan. With a lot of effort, he schools his face into an appropriately neutral expression, then turns around – just catching a glimpse of Holmes, wide-eyed and tense.

“Kate,” Sebastian says, calmly.

“Mr Moran,” she says, equally calm.

“You got here quickly.”

“We’ve got out ways. Would you like to come with me?”

“Your mistress wants a word, I suppose?”

“It’s only polite, isn’t it? Follow me.” She looks over Sebastian’s shoulder at Holmes. “You too, Mr Holmes,” she adds, lingering on the _mister_ in a way that’s just a tad insulting – not that Holmes seems to pick it up, the arrogant sod.

“You moved territories, then?” he asks Kate as they trudge after her. “Got tired of Italy, feeling a craving for more northern parts?”

“Miss Adler is a citizen of the world, Mr Moran,” Kate says, with her characteristic half-hidden mockery beneath the words.

“Is she? I’m surprised. It’s not easy travelling light when your luggage includes a St-Andrew’s cross, is it?”

“It folds up remarkably well,” Kate deadpans.

“Must be difficult getting it through customs, I imagine?”

“It’s astonishingly easy to smuggle all sorts of things across borders, if you know people – as you have experienced yourself, Mr Moran.”

“I never smuggled BDSM equipment in my luggage.”

Kate raises one expressive eyebrow.

“Not in the same quantities as your mistress does, anyway,” he amends, and behind him Holmes makes a small sound. Kate smirks at it.

“Still, it’s a risk, being here,” he adds. “Am I really worth it?”

“You alone, perhaps not. But the both of you…” She glances at Holmes. “Definitely.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Are you threatening me, Mr Moran?” she asks, sounding faintly amused.

“Just preparing.” He leans in a little closer. “What’s stopping me from snatching that gun from your manicured little hands and shooting you right through the fucking head right now, Kate?”

She tilts her head, meeting his eyes without fear. “I don’t know. What does?”

He gives her wry smile and falls back again. Holmes gives him a look, which he ignores, focusing instead on his own thoughts and memories.

Irene Adler.

The thought of facing her on his own, without Jim to hide behind, frankly makes his blood run cold. Even standing in the background while Jim did the negotiating had already been something of a trial, what with Adler’s damn hyperawareness and the incessant fucking flirting. The idea of having to do all the talking himself…

On the other hand, right now they don’t have any conflicting interests. He’s holding back information she might want, and that’s a potential problem – but then again, knowing her, she probably realised Jim was still alive two days after his supposed death. Would she be interested to know where he is? Would that really gain her that much advantage?

Chances are this is just a check-up. He’d do the same if he found Adler snooping around in London; bring her in, see if she’s messing with anything important, find out if she’s a threat. Common sense. So, if that’s the case, all he’s got to do right now is convince her he’s telling the truth.

Easier said than done.

“Here we are,” Kate says.

Sebastian looks up. They’re in front of a derelict-looking building, the paint on the door peeling and old. But as he looks closer, there are a few things that don’t add up: a glint of shiny metal at the lock, an almost-hidden wire running across the top of the window, the blinds that should be falling apart with rust but still seem surprisingly effective…

Who’d have guessed that Adler had a safehouse in the same damn city as theirs?

Kate unlocks and opens the door and gestures them both in. As he suspected, inside it’s pretty immaculate and modern, the polar opposite of the crumbling façade.

Kate leads them wordlessly to a drawing room, then leaves them behind. Sebastian drops his bag next to one of the sofas and sits down, taking on a relaxed pose. Holmes doesn’t follow his example. He goes to stand over by the fireplace instead, hands tight behind his back.

He’s looking distinctly spooked, although he’s hiding it well. As he catches Sebastian’s eye, he opens his mouth but Sebastian quickly lifts his finger to his lips, then nods at the upper right corner of the room.

The camera is pretty will-hidden, but like the façade, the tell-tale signs are there if you know how to look for them.

Sebastian leans back in the sofa, trying to quell his nerves. Holmes seems to be tracking the room, eyes darting from the sofas to the coffee table to the carpet, mouth thin, tension coming off him in waves.

Now there’s a wildcard. Fuck knows what went on between Adler and Holmes, whether he considers her an enemy or a friend. Maybe he should be worrying about them teaming up against him – then again, judging by Holmes’ tense state, the flint in his eyes, that seems unlikely.

Still. Dealing with Adler on her own would be enough of a challenge. Holmes added into the mix makes this whole thing a fucking minefield.

The door swings open. Sebastian quickly stands up as Adler poses in the doorway, smiling. She’s in businesswear, loose black trousers and a dark blue blouse, but the way she wears them she might as well be in a corset and garters.

“You always were such a well-mannered boy, aren’t you, Seb?” she says, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Manners never hurt anyone,” he says, hiding the wince at the overly-familiar petname.

“Please,” Adler adds with a wave of her hand as she crosses the room and sits down opposite of them. Sebastian sinks down into the sofa, legs crossed. Holmes stays standing.

Adler crosses her arms, tilts her head. “Well, now here’s an unexpected pair,” she says after a moment, eyes going to Holmes. “I’d never expect you side by side with him, Sherlock.”

“He has his uses,” Holmes says, with a shrug.

“Oh, I know,” Adler says with tangible, lascivious amusement. “Although I doubt you’ve _used_ him to the full, though.” Then she turns her eyes to Sebastian and her demeanour changes, a subtle fading of the smile, focus growing sharper…

Wariness.

“Sebastian.”

“Miss Adler.”

“I assumed we were on first-name terms by now.” She tilts her head. “Or should I have guessed that you didn’t feel that warmly towards me anymore, when you passed by Rome without dropping me a courtesy visit?”

“I was rather in a hurry, I’m afraid.”

“I saw.” Her eyes are sharp on his face, taking in everything. “There are people on your tail.”

“I’m aware. Any idea who?”

“Not yet. But there’s a few of them. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Jim.”

Next to him, Holmes makes a small involuntary movement, and Adler’s eyes flash. “I suppose I should’ve known. Where is he?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Taken?”

“Not as far as I’m aware. Just in hiding.” Sebastian pauses. “He left me a clue. To help me find him.”

“Did he, now?”

“I’ve been assuming he’s on the run, unable to communicate clearly, hence the clues. I think he meant me to decipher them, follow their trail…”

“Which led you to Italy,” she finishes. “Rome?”

“No, somewhere else.”

“Ah. And I’m assuming Jim wasn’t there?”

“No,” he says. “He left another clue, is what I’m thinking. But I got interrupted, had to scarper before I found whatever it was he meant me to find there. It wasn’t even my intention to go through Rome, just that – like I said – I was in a hurry.”

“Meaning you’re not threat to me or my business, is that what you’re saying?” Adler asks, cruel amusement dancing in her eyes.

“Can’t harm pointing it out,” he says mildly.

“So you want to go back to Italy?”

“Don’t know yet,” he says. “Depends. It’s been burnt, so at the very least we need – ”

“Ah,” she interrupts him. “There it is.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“ _We_.” She leans back, smiles. “Not _I_ , darling. You care to explain why Sherlock Holmes is tagging along on this supposed search?” She turns her eyes to Holmes. “Are you his captive, Sherlock?”

“No,” Holmes says, at the exact same time Sebastian says “Yes.”

There’s a quivering silence.

“Well,” Adler says, sounding like she’s about the break out in laughter. “Isn’t this interesting.”

“I’m using him to decipher the clues,” Sebastian says impatiently. “He’s tagging along for his own reasons, _and_ ‘cause I promised him I’d hunt him down if he ran away. And this all has got fuck all to do with you, Irene, so just let us go and return to your Palazzo.”

There’s another silence, of a whole different quality.

“And why should I do that?” Adler asks, voice cold. “What do I have to gain by that? And more importantly, does it weigh up to what I can get if I sell you two to whoever it is who’s hunting you?”

“You don’t even know who they are,” Sebastian says, not bothering to hide his impatience. “Do you really want to buy favour with what can just as easily be just a gaggle of idiots, or government, and make enemies of us?”

“ _Make_? I thought I had already. Jim dropped me like a tonne of bricks the moment I gave him what he wanted, remember?”

“You had a deal, it was done. Are you expecting charity now, Irene?”

“No, I’m expecting a mutually beneficial professional relationship, and it’s _evident_ that I can’t have that with you or your boss. Of course I’ll be looking somewhere else now. And why should I hesitate making an enemy of a dead man?”

“You think it’ll take long before he resurfaces? You think he’ll be pleased if he hears you sold me to the highest bidder?”

“I think it can be a long while yet, especially if you are out of the picture.”

“Sooner or later, eventually he’ll be back and he _will_ settle his scores.”

She hesitates. It’s brief, covered up almost instantly, but he spent hours watching the meetings between Jim and Irene from the sidelines; he knows what to look for, now.

But then she looks at Holmes. “And you?” she asks. “What do you think about all this?”

Sebastian swallows a curse. He’d almost forgotten about Holmes. If it had been just Adler and him they’d be fine by now, but Holmes can fuck everything up in just one sentence, if he so chooses.

“I don’t think anything,” Holmes says, rather calmly. “I’m just observing the show.”

“You’re Sebastian’s captive. Want me to free you, Sherlock?” She smiles.

“Out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Out of profit. I’m sure your brother would be more than happy to pay whichever knight in shining armour brought back the brother in distress. No matter the personal history.”

“He’d arrest you in the same breath as thanking you,” Holmes says dismissively. “And I doubt whoever is following us has any scruples, given how far they went to find us. You think they’re safe to negotiate with, that they won’t have you killed the minute you give them what you want? Are you willing to take that risk?”

“So you suggest I play it safe and put you two back on the streets, like nothing happened?”

“Return to Rome without getting mixed up in something that’s really not worth your bother,” Sebastian says.

“Fine,” she says. “I will.”

Neither of them relaxes.

“If you show me one piece of evidence to prove your story,” she adds.

“Fuck’s sake,” Sebastian growls.

“Why would you think we’re lying?” Holmes asks.

“I don’t know. Why would you suddenly show up in Italy, together, when I’ve been working so hard to carve out a safe space for myself again? Maybe you’re out for revenge, Sherlock. Or maybe – ” She looks back at Sebastian. “Maybe this is you cleaning up for Jim. No loose ends, isn’t that his philosophy? I got away in the end, that won’t do, won’t it? Not with everything I – ”

“Aragno,” Sebastian says.

“Excuse me?” Adler says, clearly surprised.

Holmes makes a movement, almost as if he’s going to speak. Before he can, Sebastian grabs his wrist and squeezes, hard.

Adler’s eyes go briefly to Holmes’ wrist, then back to Sebastian’s face.

“Aragno,” Sebastian repeats, “small village near L’Aquila. Follow the main road for about five miles and you’ll eventually find a smaller dirt road, take that one until you come at cast-iron fence. There’s Jim’s place. That’s where the clue led us. Be careful, though, I’m guessing the people who found us there will still be hanging around.”

“Jim’s house,” Adler repeats, and even she can’t hide the faint breathlessness in her voice.

“If you happen to find anything that looks like a clue, let us know, will you?” He stands up.

Adler immediately follows suit, taking a step that puts her straight into his personal space. She has to crane her neck to look him in the eye, a move that would put anyone else at a disadvantage, but she somehow manages to twist it in her favour.

“And what if you’re lying?” she asks softly.

“Want to test me?” He spreads his arms. “Want me to go to my knees again, _Miss Adler_?”

“You kept the lie up last time too.”

“Barely, and we both know it.”

She doesn’t break eye contact.

“I’m not lying,” he says softly.

“Jim wouldn’t be pleased if I sold you, you said.” Her eyes take in his face, hungrily. “But I can think of a number of other things I could do to you that he wouldn’t be pleased about, either.”

“If that’s what it takes,” he says, and his heart starts beating faster because grandstanding and threats are one thing, but if this really what she’s asking, if he’s going to bow down for her again and this time without Jim’s safety net to fall back on…

Then she shakes her head and steps back. “Tempting, but not worth the risk.”

“Shame.”

She laughs. “You play dangerously, Sebastian.”

“Always have,” he says easily.

“Don’t I know it. What about him?” she adds, with a small nod at Holmes.

He grins wide and Holmes makes another one of those involuntary movements. But he stays quiet, surprisingly enough.

“Want a hostage?” Sebastian asks, amused.

“You could still be lying, after all. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of him.” She winks at Holmes and he shudders in response.

“Nice thought, but I sort of need him.”

“Do you, now?” She turns and opens the door. “Come to the _Schwarze Rose_  tomorrow night, around midnight. If your story checks out, we may be able to help each other.”

“It would be my pleasure.” He looks over his shoulder at Holmes and tilts his chin. “Coming?”

Which gets him another sharp look from Adler. “And what if you stay too?” she asks, teasingly. “And I don’t mean as a client. Sherlock is a handful, isn’t he? I’m sure I could use some help…”

Sebastian makes a show of considering, not hiding his smirk as Holmes glares at him. “I won’t pretend I’m not tempted,” he says lazily. “But…”

“Hm?”

“Well.” He gives Adler a charming smile. “You know how there are a few things you can do that would displease Jim greatly when he’d find out?”

“Yes?”

“That doesn’t just go for you.”

She laughs. “Of course. Well, maybe later then, once your Jim is back. We’ll have ourselves a nice little party.” She sends a look at Holmes, who is very faintly blushing.

“I look forward to it,” Sebastian says. “Come on,” he adds, to Holmes.

Holmes bristles again but he follows at Sebastian’s heel as he goes down the hallway. Adler opens the door for them, then meets Sebastian’s eyes.

“If you’re lying,” she says, softly, and the flirty tone is gone and it’s easy, so fucking goddamned easy to think of her of just another power-hungry whore, but…

But she successfully outbluffed Jim Moriarty, and he’s not about to forget that.

“I’m not,” he says, seriously.

“Good,” and she closes the door in their faces.

Sebastian shakes his head, then descends to the street and walks back in the general direction of the flat, Holmes at his side.

He breathes out slowly, calming down his nerves again. Decent. Not like Jim, no, but he managed to warn her, at the very least, to keep her at bay, to let them go again. It’s even -

“Why the _hell_ did you do that?” Holmes suddenly bursts out.

“Do what?” Sebastian asks pleasantly.

“Give her Aragno.”

“Because she would have found out anyway. She owns half of Italy, it’s only a matter of time before she traces our steps back, found some stray witnesses. Besides,” he adds patiently. “Don’t you keep saying that this search is tailored for me, that no one else would be able to decipher his hints?”

“ _Normal_ people,” Holmes says, irritated. “She’s – she may have just have a chance of – ”

“Of what? Finding Jim before we do? You really believe that?”

Holmes stubbornly shakes his head. “You took a risk, a massive risk, for no reason.”

“It’s not a risk, I told you, she would have found out eventually. And like this, we can buy a little favour for her, which – in case you’ve forgotten – is something we can use right now.”

Holmes doesn’t reply.

“Well played, by the way,” Sebastian adds.

Holmes looks up. “Sorry?”

“Staying quiet, letting me do the talking. I wouldn’t have expected it of you, to be honest.” He gives Holmes an ironic look. “You can submit after all, can you?”

He shrugs. “She has a habit of taking my words and using them against me. Far more interesting to stay on the background, observe her react to someone else. I didn’t exactly get the opportunity for that before.”

“Didn’t trust Watson to do the talking, do you?” he asks, amused.

Holmes looks a little disturbed for a second or two. Then he shakes his head. “No. But you…”

“She’s a viper,” Sebastian says easily. “And I know just enough to avoid the major traps. I suppose I owe you a thank you, though.”

“A… what?” Holmes asks, startled. “Why?”

“For staying silent, letting me take the lead and following. Even if you did it in your own interests, it saved me a lot of trouble.”

“Ah.” Holmes frowns. “Yes, that’s…All right.”

“At the very least we’ve given her a lot to be puzzled about, which is always nice.”

“I didn’t do it for your benefit,” Holmes says suddenly.

“I know,” Sebastian says, amused.

Holmes frowns again. Then his expression goes thoughtful, his attention turning inward the way Sebastian’s seen happen a few times before. No point in trying to engage when Holmes is in me-mode.

So he takes a deep breath, centers himself, then starts on the long way to the safehouse, the back of his neck already prickling.

***

It’s almost an hour’s walk from Adler’s place to the safehouse. It would probably be much easier to take a bus or tram, or even a taxi, but after Adler his paranoia feels like it’s reached boiling point. Every pedestrian passing by, every car, every bike, sets his senses on high alert.

But nobody follows them. Maybe Holmes was right, maybe those two at the manor were nothing but a stroke of bad luck, maybe there is no organised search behind it and Adler was lying about the people on them, just to fuck with them – it would be true to character. On the other hand, simply assuming the threat is gone because he can’t immediately spot anyone suspicious-looking is negligent bordering on the suicidal; he can almost feel Jim sneering at him for even considering letting his guard down like that.

“Almost there?” Holmes asks.

“Almost.” He jerks his chin at a back alley. “Round here.”

They go in, picking their way across stray rubbish and overflowing bins. Sebastian stops underneath the fire escape ladder and looks up. Holmes follows his gaze, then raises his eyebrow at Sebastian.

“Really?” Holmes asks dryly.

“Really.” Sebastian jumps up and yanks the ladder down. The metal stairs clang down to the ground and he clambers up them. “Coming?”

Holmes sighs, but follows.

The back door is still firmly locked. Sebastian looks up at the camera, hidden away in the crevice next to the door, then puts his hand on the suspiciously clean doorknob, at odds with the dirt of the door and the windows.

There’s a tiny _blip_. He pushes the door open, steps inside.

Safe.

Holmes immediately follows him, going straight to the windows looking out to the main street outside. Sebastian puts his bag down, glances around. The room smells of mothballs and dust and cooking grease – Chinese restaurant on the floor below still going strong, then.

“It’s smaller than I expected it to be,” Holmes says.

“This isn’t like Sweden,” Sebastian says as he goes over to the front door. “This is just a safehouse – that’s all it is, safe. No luxury, nothing beyond what’s strictly necessary.”

“I noticed.”

Sebastian gives Holmes a look, then deactivates the trap on the door. Behind him, Holmes makes a small noise.

“Booby-trapped,” Sebastian says as he moves to the wall safe. “Anyone trying to open that door would have met a very messy end.”

“And the backdoor?”

“Handprint-coded. Would have triggered the same trap unless the pattern was recognised.”

“You’re in luck the reading was accurate enough, then.”

“Aren’t I just.” He punches in the code to the wall safe and opens it.

“That’s a code you do know, then?” Holmes asks, with a hint of sarcasm.

“Contains less important things.” He pulls out a laptop, a folder and a Beretta and takes them all to the table. “Right. Let’s find out who these bastards are.”

“How?” Holmes asks, hovering over Sebastian’s shoulder.

“I’ve got access to basically every major intelligence agency’s database. If they’re official it won’t take me long to find them. And if not…”

“You’ve got access to criminal databases too?” Holmes asks sourly.

“Something like that, yeah. Now stop hanging over me like that.”

Holmes huffs, but retreats. He ends up by the window again, looking out thoughtfully. Sebastian gives him a quick look, then returns to the laptop. The programme has started up; he swipes his index finger over the reader next to the mouse and there's a tiny  _blip_ of acceptance.

“And what am I supposed to do while you do that?” Holmes asks, with a dark look at his screen.

Sebastian takes out his phone and hands it over, without looking up from the computer. “There’s Wifi,” he says absently. “You’re a detective. So, detect.”

Holmes stays where he is for a moment, then snatches the phone from Sebastian’s hand and strides off.

“I suppose there’s no need to tell you not to use that phone to contact anyone…” Sebastian says, eyes on his own screen.

Holmes snorts. “As if.”

Sebastian briefly looks up at Holmes. He’s sitting cross-legged on the threadbare sofa, phone cradled in his hand, frowning and concentrated. Single-minded…

And of course he’s on the run, of course he thinks not letting the homefront know he’s still alive keeps them safe, but… The main thing that was supposed to protect them from was Sebastian. Surely he must realise that there’s no danger from that side anymore, that there’s no real point in hiding? So why the fuck does he still persist, playing along in this stupid fucking game?

Unless, of course, there’s something he’s missing in this thing between Jim and Holmes. 

He sighs and goes back to his laptop, forcing himself to remember how this works. It’s oddly logical, once you’ve got the hang of it, that much he remembers, but how to get in…

His thoughts get interrupted by a loud yawn. “Go to sleep,” he snaps, without looking up at Holmes.

“Where,” Holmes says, annoyed.

“Sofa folds out into a bed. There should be bed linens in the closet somewhere.”

“And you?”

“Why, want me to join you?” Sebastian says, eyes still on the screen. “Feeling a bit lonely, are you? Or just ho-”

“I’m still working.”

He looks up. Holmes is still sitting on the sofa, arms crossed and pouting like an angry child.

“I slept in the plane,” Sebastian says. “You? And don’t bother lying,” he adds.

Holmes makes to reply, then gets betrayed by his own body as his words turn into another huge yawn.

“Go to sleep,” Sebastian says again, this time with a little more kindness in his voice. “If we’re going to face Adler again, I’d rather you don’t do it hazy with sleep-deprivation.”

For a moment, Holmes looks like he’s about to continue his protest. Then, surprisingly, he shrugs and nods. “But keep quiet,” he says, in a snide, superior tone. “Don’t wake me up, it’s difficult enough as it is to get some decent sleep with you lurking about.”

“I’ll be quiet as a mouse,” Sebastian promises solemnly. “Bed linens are in the closet.” And he turns back to his laptop.

Holmes huffs, then silently goes about the business of making the bed. Sebastian mostly ignores him, focusing instead on his work. The big blob in the middle, wasn’t that the key? He clicks it, experimentally. A network of lines opens up, spreading across the screen.

He frowns, then zooms in. If anything, it makes the connections look even more complex.

Why couldn’t Jim just use Windows like a normal person?

“Shush.”

Sebastian looks up. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were sighing. It’s keeping me up.”

“As if you’d be sleeping that quickly,” Sebastian says, a little annoyed.

“Your noise certainly isn’t helping.”

He bites back an irritated response, and shrugs. “I’ll be quiet.”

Holmes glares at him. It would probably look more impressive if he’d not been doing it from underneath a big fluffy blanket.

“Go to sleep,” Sebastian repeats, feeling a little like a put-upon parent. “Or try to, at least.”

Holmes huffs and turns onto his side, pulling the blanket over him so all there is left to see is a mop of dark curls.

Strange man. Petulant and childish one moment, cold calculating genius the next. Of course, Jim has bouts of childlike whimsy as well, but that's different. Holmes, despite all his ruthless intelligence, often reminds him more of a spoiled boy than anything else. And yet...

And yet, that first impression he'd gotten, of Holmes being nothing but another arrogant idiot rich kid, drunk on privilege and full of his own importance, has been thoroughly disproven. Emotionally immature he may be, but when he's working, analysing evidence or picking apart people's behaviour, he has exactly the same cold focus Jim has when he's working a job. Not arrogant then, simply confident and certain about his skills. 

It's getting less and less difficult to see why Jim got obsessed with Holmes. A mind with so similar to his own, unique as it is, someone who thinks the same way, who functions on the same level as him, someone who could give him what no one else ever could...

Sebastian shakes his head, dismissing that line of thought, and focuses back on his laptop. Brooding isn't going to get him anywhere.

He opens the web again, tracking the different tendrils, all connecting a whole network of nodes. Right. 

Let's get to work.

***

The sunlight of dawn coming through the blinds finally makes him tear his eyes away from the screen.

He yawns, his jaw clicking, then checks his watch – six AM. Christ, his sleeping schedule is well and truly fucked now.

Still, at least he made some progress. It took hours before he managed to code a decent query, but going off what he can see rolling across the screen, he’s finally got the right combination of terms and parameters. He scrolls down, images blurring before his tired eyes – then a small whimper makes him look up.

Holmes, surprisingly, has been sleeping for quite a while now. There have been a couple of false starts, Holmes startling awake with a grunt or a cut-off shout, but after that he seemed to sink into a deeper, dreamless kind of sleep.

Although that peace is over again, apparently. Holmes' eyes are still closed, but he’s tossing and turning, face beaded with sweat, hands clenching and unclenching against the pillow.

Sebastian sighs, then gets up and goes over to shake Holmes’ shoulder.

Holmes jolts awake. “What – ”

“Nightmares.”

Holmes squeezes his eyes shut, runs his hands over his face. Then he drops his arms heavily to the mattress. “I’m thoroughly tired of this,” he mutters, voice sleep-rough and hoarse.

“I can imagine,” Sebastian says, pitching his voice low and soft. He pulls the sheets back a little. “Do you mind if...”

Holmes shakes his head. Sebastian quickly crosses the room to close the curtains, casting the room into twilight shadows, then strips off down to his boxers and gets into bed, carefully staying on his side. 

For a moment, they lie together in silence, no noise but the muted sound of the city waking up and Holmes' still slightly ragged breathing.

Then Holmes turns his head. “Did he used to have them too? Moriarty?” he asks, blinking owlishly.

He must be still dazed with sleep, otherwise he’d never be this direct.

“Yeah,” Sebastian says. “In periods, mostly. He would sleep like a baby for months, then suddenly wake up every night.”

“What did he do? How did he cope?”

Sebastian shrugs. “Sex, mostly.”

Holmes stays silent for a while. “It distracted him?” he asks, carefully, as if he’s trying to make sense of it but it isn’t _quite_ working.

“Yeah.” Sebastian sits up a little, leaning back against the pillows. “The way I understood it, it was… Well, nightmares is his mind turning on him. Taking him away from everything. So what he needs after that is something to ground him, bring him back to the present, the now. The physical. Sex can do that. Violence too, I suppose – though to be honest, those two often get mixed up with us.” 

Holmes is still looking at him. Not with his usual expression of disgust and contempt, and not even with that fiery-eyed fascination that’s cropped up once or twice. Instead, he looks serious, like he’s honestly considering the content of Sebastian’s words.

“Something to link him back to the now,” he mutters.

“Basically, yeah.”

“And sex… It worked, for him?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t like – well, it tended to be quicker, simpler than other times. It’s…” Sebastian runs his hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Even apart from anything else, it’s biology, isn’t it? Hormones. Endorphins cancelling out the fear, the stress.”

Holmes nods. “But why did he need you for that? Masturbation – ”

“ – is never quite as intense as partnered sex.”

“Isn’t it?” Holmes asks, sounding genuinely interested.

“No, it’s really not.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Unpredictability, maybe? By definition, you know what’s going to happen if you’re the one doing it. But it’s more than that, it’s…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know, I never really thought about it. It’s one of those things you realise pretty quickly, once you get rid of your virginity.” He looks at Holmes, a thought hitting him. “So, have you ever…?”

“What?” Holmes asks, eyebrows up.

“Wanked.”

Holmes crinkles his nose. “Once or twice, for the sake of the experiment.”

“You didn’t enjoy it?”

“Not really.” Holmes shrugs. “It’s… a brief moment of pleasure, that’s all. Nothing lasting. The aftermath is disgusting. It takes far too much work. Compared to a drug rush it’s nothing. So…”

“So you assumed sex with someone else would be the same?” Sebastian asks, curious.

“Seems only logical. It isn’t, then?”

“Depends on the person, I suppose. And your feelings towards said person.”

“Love?” Holmes asks, full of derision.

“Nah. Not necessarily. It’s just different having sex with someone you really properly want, versus someone who’s just available.”

“Hm.” He nods, slowly, taking in the new information. “And between Moriarty and you…”

“Oh, I wanted him all right,” Sebastian says, laughing. “And he wanted me too – wasn’t sure of that at first, but Christ, he proved it afterwards.”

“So it was – good, then?”

“Good?” He almost laughs again. _Good_ , as if it’s that simple, as if there are any words to describe…

“Wasn’t it?” Sherlock asks again.

Sebastian shakes off the memories. “It was… More. More than just _good_. More than anything I’d ever had before, just – I don’t know. It's hard to explain. Intense, maybe that’s the word for it. Really, really intense.”

“Because you wanted each other,” Sherlock says. “Sexual attraction. Right?”

“Well – yeah, I suppose so. But not just that. It’s just… When you’re with someone who really knows what they’re doing, how all this works, how _you_ work, then it’s not just about coming. It’s every step of the way there that feels good, and the orgasm is just the cherry on the cake.”

Holmes folds his hands behind his head and looks at the ceiling, frowning. Thinking.

“Is this…” Sebastian asks carefully. “Have you ever talked about this with anyone else?”

“About sex?” Holmes asks, surprisingly unembarrassed. “No.”

“How come?”

“Because no one understood,” he says. “The reasons why I’m not interested. Even the reasons why they’re doing it, really. No one seems to understand where I’m coming from.” He looks at Sebastian and frowns. “Except you, for some reason.”

“Because of Jim.”

“Yes. And no.” He closes his eyes again and folds his hands over his stomach. “You talk about sex in a way I’ve never heard anyone else talk about it. And – ”

“And?”

“And suddenly it starts making sense. A little.”

“Suppose when you’ve had the kind of sex life I’ve had, the mysticism around it kinda disappears.”

“Mm,” Holmes says. His breathing is slowing down again, face relaxing. Falling asleep.

Sebastian watches him for a moment.

Then he turns onto his side. Weirdest kind of bedtime story, but if it gets Holmes to sleep peacefully, he’ll happily talk sex for hours.

***

The next day they spend continuing their research, Sebastian patiently slogging away in front of his laptop, and Holmes either hammering furiously on his phone or sitting still, eyes closed and expression thoughtful, for hours at a time.

 _Mind palace_ indeed.

Neither method gets them anywhere. There’s simply nothing there to found, it seems. A few references to Holmes’ possible faked death, but without anything real to back it up. One or two sightings of him a few months ago, before he even plucked Holmes from his captors. Wild speculation and rumours, but nothing concrete, nothing that looks like the kind of solid trace a chase like this should leave.

It doesn’t make _sense_.

He shuts the laptop’s lid with a snarl and pushes it away from him.

“Have you considered the fact that it might have been Moriarty who sent them?” Holmes asks, stirring his chopsticks into the box of Chow Mein Sebastian went down to get about two hours ago. It’s gone cold and congealed, but Holmes doesn’t seem to mind, disgusting little bastard.

“No,” Sebastian says impatiently. “Because that’s a stupid idea.”

“Why not? It’s his thing, isn’t it, passing messages to people through other people…”

“Not to me,” Sebastian says curtly. “And not there, either. Jim would never let strangers in there.” He stands up and goes over to the window. Cabin fever has been creeping up at him, the room too small, too cramped, for him to fully relax.

“And yet you let me in,” Holmes says behind him.

“Well, you’re _special_ ,” Sebastian says sarcastically.

Holmes doesn’t reply.

Sebastian looks over his shoulder, then smirks. Holmes has sat down in front of Sebastian’s laptop, screen up again. He’s squinting angrily at the password-protected screen saver.

“I wouldn’t,” Sebastian says.

Holmes stares at the screen for a moment. Then he suddenly swipes his finger over the fingerprint reader.

Sebastian’s laughter almost drowns out the loud _bleep_ of a failed connection attempt.

“Worth a shot,” Holmes says, unconcerned.

“Hardly.”

“Well, you never know,” Holmes continues. “He’s done stranger things.”

“Strange, yes. Stupid, no.”

Silence. He looks over his shoulder. Holmes is on the bed again, lying on his back, arms behind his head, looking up at the ceiling.

“Maybe it is Mycroft after all,” Holmes says. “That would explain the radio silence.”

“Even Mycroft can’t do anything like this entirely below the radar,” Sebastian says.

“He’s very good at discretion.”

Sebastian gives Holmes a smile. “And Jim is very good at finding secrets.”

Holmes shrugs. “Depends on the scale. Mycroft has a few close employees, people he trusts. If he told them to keep off-radar, gave them their orders in person…”

“Hm, point taken.” Sebastian rubs his eyes. “Still. There might be traces, even if it’s just a plane ticket in the accounts somewhere. I suppose I can look into it more thoroughly,” he adds, eyeing his laptop with distaste.

“So what is our plan?”

Sebastian turns. Holmes is watching him expectantly. “We meet up with Adler at – ”

“No, not that,” Holmes says, waving his hand. “Longer term. Are we going to go back to Italy?”

“Can’t. I had a look earlier, they’re still hanging around.”

“What do you mean, you _had a look_?” Holmes asks, sounding offended.

“I have access to the CCTV footage.” He nods at the laptop. “Gives me a handy situation update. And as long as there are armed men patrolling the house, we can’t go back. It would be sticking our necks in a noose.”

“So what do we do in the meantime?”

“I…” Sebastian blinks. “I’m not sure, actually. Hide, I suppose.”

“Hm.”

Sebastian raises his eyebrow. “I suppose you have a better idea.”

“Maybe.” Holmes sits up and leans forwards. “Moriarty might be on the run, but he still is who he is. Isn’t there a chance that he might have gotten involved in a crime or two, meddled here and there?”

“I… suppose,” Sebastian says slowly. “He’s always hated being idle, I can tell you that.”

“So if we can’t follow his trail,” Holmes says, with ill-hidden excitement, “we can approach this from another direction. See if we can’t find Moriarty’s metaphorical fingerprints somewhere.”

“And how would we do that?”

“I’ve done it before,” Holmes says. “I’d recognise his style. And I’ve done some research. There are one or two cases – ”

Sebastian raises his hand, interrupting him. “Fine, nice idea, and definitely something to consider if we get stuck. But right now we’ve got another path to explore first, all right?”

Holmes deflates, almost pouting.

“It’s almost eleven. We should be getting ready.”

Holmes frowns at him. “You’re really going through with this?”

“I know that if given the choice, I’d rather be on Adler’s good side. Besides, we held up our end of the deal. There’s no reason why she should be at odds with us.”

“Unless she decided to sell us after all,” Holmes points out.

“Possible. But I doubt it. It isn’t really _her_ , she prefers her betrayals to be more stylish.” He pushes his chair away from the table. “Right. The _Schwarze Rose_.”

“You know it?”

“A bit. It’s a BDSM club.” He eyes Holmes, then adds, “Bondage and – ”

“- discipline, dominance and submission, sadism and masochism, yes, I know,” Holmes says impatiently. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

“No-o, but I’d think this falls a bit outside of your, er, area of expertise.”

“I’m a detective. And clubs of that kind are rife with secrets, of course that spawns crimes.”

“And crimes spawn detectives,” Sebastian says. Then he tilts his head. “Wait… Have you ever been undercover in one before?”

Holmes opens his mouth, then narrows his eyes. “No,” he says, after a momentary pause. “Why?”

“Mental images.” He rubs his forehead. “Joking aside, do you know anything about those places?”

“The basics. They’re not that different from other clubs, aren’t they?”

“In some ways.” He stands up. “You’ll need to be careful. Adler’ll want us to believe that it’s a neutral zone, a safe space. It’s not.”

“Presumably she knows the owners.”

“Presumably, yeah. Plus, there’s a bag check at the door, meaning no guns.”

Holmes raises his eyebrow. “So you’re going out unarmed while we know armed men are hunting us?”

“This is different, we’ll be in public. No one’s going to assassinate someone in plain view of hundreds of other people. As long as we’re careful not to get isolated, we’re good.”

“You’re willing to bet your life that?”

“I’ve had worse odds. Besides, I won’t be wholly unarmed. ‘Scuse me.” He reaches past Holmes, who backs out of his personal space like he’s contaminated, and pulls open the bedside table. “Now, if I remember correctly…There.” He straightens up with a flourish.

Holmes stares flatly. “You keep a stun gun in your bedside table.”

“For defensive reasons, not for creative ones.” He takes a moment to think, then adds, “Mostly.”

Holmes shudders, then shakes his head. “They won’t allow guns but they do allow stun guns?”

“The line between actual violence and play is remarkably thin, for some people.” He switches the voltage to maximum and puts it down on the bed, then dives back into the bedside table. A few moments of rooting gives him a pair of metal handcuffs and a set of thin knives.

“More self-defense?” Holmes sneers.

“These? Nah. He likes things with an edge.” He gets up again. “We’ll need to blend in, by the way.”

Holmes glares. “If you’re thinking of putting me in some kind of _fetish outfit_ …”

“Beautiful as the image of you in leather bootie shorts is, no, I won’t. You’d be too obviously ill at ease. And I don’t have any lying around.” He closes up the safe again. “There’s a black shirt somewhere in my bag. Put that on, take a belt too. Your attitude will do the rest, if we’re lucky.”

“My attitude?”

“Of arrogant superiority.” He grins at Holmes. “Either that, or they’ll assume you’re the brattiest sub in existence. Personally, I would be leaning towards the latter.”

Holmes blinks, evidently trying to parse that sentence and failing. Sebastian leaves him to his confusion and gets a pair of lace-up boots from his bag to replace his proper Oxfords.

“So are you…” Holmes asks after a moment or two.

“Am I going as your sub? Fuck no.” He pulls the laces tight and loops them into a knot. “Two doms can visit a club together. If anyone asks, we can say we’re looking for a sub to share.”

No reply.

Sebastian puts his feet back on the floor and straightens up. Holmes’ face is twisted in distaste.

“You know,” Sebastian says, “it’s entirely possible Adler wanted to meet us there because she knew you’d feel like that.”

“Without a doubt,” Holmes mutters.

“Then get over it. It’s just sex, in a different coat. You can’t afford to be distracted.”

“I just don’t understand,” Holmes bursts out, frustrated. “Why would you… I can understand wanting sex but why would you _want_ yourself to be humiliated?”

“Why?” Sebastian smiles. “Loads of reasons. Why would you willingly seek out a criminal genius bent on murdering you?”

Holmes opens his mouth, then shakes his head, expression clearly angry.

“Come on, get changed.” Sebastian gets up and stretches. “I want to get there early, case the place before she shows up.”

Holmes starts unbuttoning his shirt, still scowling.

“And keep up that expression,” Sebastian says, grinning. “You make a _very_ believable sadistic bastard.”

***

The  _Schwarze Rose_  looks as discreet as they places always do from the outside. Holmes even walks by it without noticing; Sebastian has to snag him by the elbow and pull him back.

“This is it?” Holmes asks, sounding sceptical.

“It is.” Sebastian throws his bag over his shoulder and knocks at the metal door. For a moment nothing happens. Then there’s a buzz and a burly fellow opens it. He gives them a dismissive onceover, then shakes his head.

“ _Ich glaube, du hast eine falsche Adresse, mein Freund_ ,” the guys says mildly.

 _“Ich glaube nicht_ ,” Sebastian says. “ _Frau Adler hat uns eingeladen_.”

The man gives them another top-to-toe look, this time a bit more thorough. Then he nods and steps aside. “ _Willkomen_.”

“ _Dankeschön_.”

The bouncer closes the door behind them, effectively looking out all outside sound, then nods at the bag. “ _Darf ich bitte Ihre Tasche überprüfen?_ ”

Sebastian blinks, then nods and holds open the bag. The guy gives it a thorough rummage, then waves them through with another respectful  _bitte_. The door at the end of the rather dusty, rundown hallway opens into something like an anteroom, with several changing cabins and a rack full of coats and jackets, and a thick, padded - soundproofed - door in the far corner. 

“Think our disguise is working,” Sebastian says as he closes the door behind him.

“Why?”

“ _Ihre_ , not  _deine_. Unless he's that respectful with all clientele, but somehow I doubt it. You ready?”

Holmes gives a tight nod. Sebastian gives him a quick once over - obviously nervous, but that's to be expected here - then pushes open the door, ushering Holmes inside before letting it fall closed again.

He blinks, adjusting. Some kind of music, trance-like and repetitive, a constant underlay beneath the intermittent moans and yells. The murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses. And the people, dressed – and not-dressed – in a wild variety of clothes, from simple things as sedate as theirs, which wouldn’t look out of place in your average office, to outfits that consist of basically a pair of laces.

Nothing new for him, all this, but Holmes…His mouth is hanging open a little and his eyes are wide, but as Sebastian watches Holmes gathers himself, closing his mouth, eyes going hard. Distancing himself from what’s happening around him. And when he looks around, his expression is one of cold, objective study.

Still. Those few seconds of open shock and surprise had been interesting.

Sebastian goes to the bar and Sherlock follows him. “ _Erste Mal?”_ the boy behind the counter asks, with a friendly smile.

“ _Nicht für mich_ ,” Sebastian says. “ _Aber mein Freund hat nicht meine Erfahrung.”_

“ _Ah. Wollen Sie etwas drinken?”_

Sebastian grins. “ _Nein_ , _danke. Wir sind nicht hier für die Getränke.”_

 _“Ruf mich an, wenn du durstig bist_ ,” the kid says with a wink, then buggers off.

Sebastian shakes his head. “Gotta give it to the Germans, formal pronouns certainly make things more interesting, don't they?”

“You have been in places like this before?” Holmes asks. “Or was that just a lie?”

“Oh, no, I have. Not many times, it’s not really my thing.”

“With Moriarty?”

Sebastian smiles. “No. Jim is more of a private person, especially when it comes to things like this.”

Holmes’ eyes coolly run over the activities in front of them. “ _Things like this_ ,” he replies, sceptically.

“Like I said: it’s just sex,” Sebastian says calmly. “Formalised, mixed with other stuff, but the essence of it is still the same. Wanting and being wanted. Desires and needs.”

“Taking and receiving,” Adler’s voice purrs from behind them.

Sebastian grits his teeth, then swivels around on the chair. “Miss Adler,” he says, politely.

“Funny, how that sounds so different when you say it here compared to my living room.” She smiles at him. “Want to come to the back? There are private rooms, we can talk there.” Her eyes go to Holmes. “Or if you’d rather stay here…”

Holmes slides out of his chair. “Show us the way.”

She leads them to a hallway behind the bar and into a small room. Inside there’s a fairly typical set-up, big bed with restraints peeking from underneath the mattress, St-Andrew’s cross in the corner… Nothing too outlandish, but Holmes seems a little disturbed by it.

“So,” Adler says as she sits down in one of the elegant chairs. “Aragno seems to check out.”

“Toldya.” Sebastian leans his shoulder against the bedpost, leaving Holmes to take the other chair.

“ _Seems_ to, I said,” Adler says. “There are definitely armed men watching it very closely, but that’s about all I can determine for the moment. You could’ve sold me just any old house that had an armed guard on it.”

“And which old house would warrant an armed guard of that level of competence around it?”

“Point taken.” She tilts her head. “I can’t find out who’s after you.”

“We neither.”

She shakes her head. “You really believe Jim is out there, no resources, no way of communicating beyond some vague clues? This is James Moriarty we’re talking about, darling.” She gives him a nasty smile. “Are you sure he hasn’t just dumped you?”

“Yes,” Sebastian says, with half a smile. “Because then he would have just killed me.”

“And gruesomely too, I have no doubt. Still, a man like Jim, it’s hard to believe – ”

“I think something went wrong,” Sebastian says, candidly.

Holmes looks up at him, as does Adler, both with an odd expression.

“He’s just one man,” Sebastian continues. “And without his network, without his resources… Even he isn’t omnipotent.”

“He certainly made it seem that way.” She leans back in her chair, watching him closely. “Are you asking for my help?”

“Are you willing to give it?”

She tilts her head, eyes still sharp. “I don’t owe James Moriarty any favours.”

“And what about him owing you?”

“Owing _you_ , you mean.”

“Same thing.”

She smiles, quick and sharp, her predator’s smile.

“Well?”

She keeps eye contact for a few moments, still smirking, sending shivers down his spine. Then she suddenly stands up. “I’ll give you one thing. Come along, now.”

Sebastian quickly exchanges a look with Holmes, who raises a sceptical eyebrow, then pushes off the bedpost to follow Adler into the hallway.

“They haven’t followed you from Aragno,” she says, stilettos clicking against the tiles. “I had the surveillance checked, the men there didn’t head to the airport.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Sebastian says.

“However…” She pushes open a door and ushers them into a surveillance room, filled with screens featuring grainy security cam footage. Most of them show the inside of the rooms, and the shenanigans going on inside, but some of them show the outside of the club.

Adler ticks her long nail against one of the screens. “This one showed up about a minute after you two came in, and has been staring at his phone ever since.”

“A very intense game of Angry Birds?” Sebastian says, eyes on the screen.

“Funny.” She gives him a look. “I had someone trace his path just now, he picked up your trail a few streets from here.”

“Damn.” Sebastian glances at Holmes. “Does your _no-killing_ rule still stand?”

“As long as we can’t rule out they’re Mycroft’s people, yes.”

“Ah,” Adler says. “So that’s why. I did wonder, Sebastian, you’re usually more direct in dealing with anyone bothering you.”

“Yeah, well.” He runs his hand through his hair, trying to think. “We need to lose him, then get the fuck out of Berlin before they find our place. Agreed?” he adds, with a look at Holmes.

Holmes nods, eyes still on the screen.

Sebastian turns to Adler. “Any objections to that plan?” he asks, with sarcastic courtesy.

“I cheer you on, darling.” She smiles. “There’s a backdoor in the hallway behind the bar, comes out into an empty alley.”

“Thanks.” He turns to leave, but she catches his sleeve before he can reach the door.

“Remember,” she says, calmly, eyes boring into his. “I could have sold you.”

“I’ll remember,” he promises.

She looks at him for a moment.

Then she lets go of his sleeve with a small pat to his arm. “And keep an eye on Sherlock, will you?” she adds, playfully. “It would be a shame if something happened to him. That is to say…” She breaks off and turns her attention to Sherlock. “Sure he’s the one you’re going with, darling?”

“And you’re the alternative, I suppose?” Sherlock says haughtily.

She turns to face him fully, and despite the height difference she more than seems to match his glare.

“Don’t want to find out?” she asks. “Go on, aren’t you _curious_ , what we two could do together?”

He opens his mouth, pauses. She smiles.

And, surprisingly, Holmes’ eyes briefly flick to Sebastian. He raises his eyebrows in surprise, but Holmes has already turned back. He gives Adler a joyless, unpleasant smile, and turns away from her. “Coming?” he asks Sebastian.

“Yessir,” he says, lazily. He throws a wink at Adler – who looks amused more than offended at the rejection – and follows Holmes down the hallway, to the back exit.

They come out into an empty alley. Sebastian has a careful look around, then turns to Holmes.

“All right, we should – ”

“You can go – ”

They both stop.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve done this,” Holmes says, sounding a little irritated.

“Maybe,” Sebastian replies. “But I’m still way ahead of the race here. So are you going to listen?”

“Fine,” Holmes says, with an explosive put-upon sigh. “Go ahead.”

“We need to ambush him. Go around the block, lure him here, incapacitate him.”

“You think he’ll fall for that?” Holmes asks sceptically.

“Think he’ll risk losing us?”

“We’ll see.” Holmes glances at the mouth of the alleyway. “I can go ‘round the back, there’s another alley about three hundred yards further that will take me back into the main street, busy enough not to rouse suspicion.”

Sebastian frowns. “How…?”

“The CCTV,” Holmes says impatiently. “Didn’t you see? It’s obvious.”

“I – fine, whatever, yeah. Good.” He glances around the alley, bites his lip. “Just…”

“What?” Holmes snaps, clearly rearing to go.

“What if it’s not you they’re after, it’s me?”

They stare at each other, uneasy.

“Then he’ll still follow me,” Holmes says, rather decisively, “because they’ll think I’ll lead them to you.”

“And why don't why try it the other way around?”

Holmes shrugs. “Given your background, I think it’s easier if you did the ambushing, but if you insist…”

He considers it briefly, then shakes his head. “No. Go ahead, be the bait. I’ll wait here.” He steps back into the doorway, hiding in the shadows. Holmes tilts his head critically, then nods and turns, heading the other way.

And then it’s silent.

The door blocks out all noise from the inside. All he can hear is the distant roar of traffic, an occasional yell or siren from the streets surrounding him.

He clenches his fist, then relaxes and stretches his fingers. Breathe in, breathe out. Senses on sharp.

Just like old times.

After what seems like an eternity, footsteps come up. Could be anyone, of course, he isn’t Jim, he can’t tell someone’s identity just by the sound of their steps. But he tenses up all the same, pressing himself tight against the wall behind him.

Then Holmes walks by, hands in his pockets, head bowed. To all intents and purposes, completely absorbed in his own thoughts.

Sebastian rocks on his heels. A second pair of footsteps picks up in volume, heading this way.

If he’s not alone, if he’s prepared, if they miscalculated…

The footsteps falter. Nowhere near close enough.

Shit.

He breathes in, trying to think, but before he can react, he hears Holmes voice going “ _hey_ ”.

Shitshit _shit_.

Holmes passes him again, in the opposite direction. Scuffling footsteps, a man stammering something in awkward German, and then the unmistakable sound of a punch.

Sebastian jumps out of his hiding spot, quickly taking in the situation. The guy is staggering back – so it was Holmes who hit – but before Holmes can get in another punch, the guy kicks out at him. Holmes goes down with a curse and the guy pulls his leg back, readying to kick again.

Sebastian lunges before he connects, pulling the guy off-balance and easily getting his arm around his throat. The guy grapples ineffectively at Sebastian’s forearm, panicking, but it only takes a few seconds before he’s out.

Sebastian drops the guy to the floor and holds out his hand to Holmes. “All right?”

Holmes scowls but takes Sebastian’s wrist, lets him pull him up. “Winded, that’s all. You choked him?”

“Yep. Still alive, don’t worry. But he’ll be out for a few minutes.”

For a moment, Holmes actually looks impressed. Then he rolls his eyes. “You’ve got a stun gun, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” He pulls the gun out, then crouches down and zaps the guy, just in case. “Now,” he says, “let’s see what we can find out…”

He quickly searches the pockets – a wallet containing nothing but cash in several currencies, an one old-fashioned phone with no recorded numbers or calls, and a Glock with the serial number filed off, which he tucks underneath his jacket. And that’s basically it.

“Definitely a spy, then.” He looks over the prone man at Holmes. “Still no killing?”

“We have no idea who he is, so no.” Holmes frowns down at the face. “I don’t recognise him at all. I suppose he could be one of Mycroft’s, the shadier kind, but…”

“Then why didn’t he try to explain himself, try to prevent you from attacking? And look.” Sebastian takes the guy’s hand and lifts it, showing off the blank, reddened fingertips. “Fingertips burnt off. Whoever is behind this, it’s someone who knows their stuff.”

“So what do we do? Can we just leave him behind?”

“I know you say no to murder, but what about torture?” Sebastian asks.

Holmes pulls a face. “Ineffective and slow, and it’s not like we can take him with us, can we?”

“I don’t know, maybe – ” He stops.

“What?” Holmes asks, alarmed.

Then he looks up as well, at the man standing at the mouth of the alley, wide-eyed and hand halfway to the inside of his jacket.

“ _Run_ ”, Sebastian bellows, and they scrabble up, sprinting out of the alley back into the main street. They weave their way through the people still around at this hour, darting across the street between speeding cars.

“Where?” Holmes asks between quick breaths.

“I know something.” Sebastian grabs Holmes’ shoulder and steers him left, left again, and then suddenly they’re in a crowded street.

Holmes skids to a halt, only narrowly avoiding bumping into someone. “And now what?” he snaps.

“Here.” He grabs Holmes’ elbow and pulls him along, past the massive queue in front of the club. The bouncer scowls as he sees them approach, but his face goes carefully neutral when Sebastian pulls a card out of his pocket and waves it at the guy. They enter without any trouble, the few people in the queue who notice them cutting the line more confused than indignant.

“What the hell was that?” Holmes asks.

“VIP-pass. Dug it out of the safe, knew it’d come in handy.”

 “Efficient,” Holmes says.

“Happy I didn’t try the old _pull you into an alley and pretend we’re kissing_ trick?” Sebastian asks, smirking.

Holmes gives him a dark look. “We aren’t in the clear yet.”

“Point taken. Let’s go, then.” He pushes open a thick, padded door, and loud techno washes over them. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Holmes wince. “Try to blend in,” he yells.

They step out into the main club area. This close to the dance floor the music is deafening. Sebastian jerks his thumb up, then heads for the metal stairs in the corner. He pushes and forces his way through the mass of people until they’re down another a corridor and on the lower level, where the music is at a more tolerable level.

“We need a car,” Holmes says, sounding almost businesslike.

“We need to get back first,” Sebastian says. “I’m not leaving Berlin empty-handed.”

“Why not leave immediately? If they can track us…”

“Recreating all the useful stuff I have in my bag would take months, and that’s not mentioning the extra firearm. We need weapons – and info, I’m not risking going blind here.” He rubs his forehead. “Who the fuck _are they_?”

“You could ask them.”

Sebastian looks up, startled. Holmes is looking rather fixedly at a point above their head, the walkway crossing the level they’re at and –

And their two pursuers, staring straight at them.

“ _Shit_.” He grabs Holmes’ arm and pulls him along.

“Back exit?” Holmes yells.

Sebastian shakes his head and makes his way through the crowds to the gents, Holmes following on his heels. By an amazing stroke of luck it’s mostly empty, the only people there one guy leaning against the sink, too high to notice anything relevant, and another two in a locked stall, who by the position of their feet are occupied with more interesting things than spying.

Sebastian gets up on the sink – the junkie looks at him blearily, probably thinks he’s having the hallucination of his life – and slams his palm against the rust-studded windowframe. It takes a hit or three before it finally springs open. He holds his hand out for Holmes, who takes it without a pause and uses the leverage to get himself through. Once he’s safely outside, Sebastian hauls himself up and through, dropping lightly on his feet in a dark alley smelling of piss and garbage.

“We need to split up,” Holmes says, his thumb rubbing the bruised knuckles of his right hand, expression rather abstracted.

“Yeah. Meet up at the flat again once we’re sure we’ve lost them.” Sebastian digs into his inside pocket and pulls out his key ring, works the key off it. “Make sure you turn right, not left, when you try to open the door.”

“Or?”

“Guess.” Sebastian looks over his shoulder – no one in sight, but that doesn’t mean they’re safe.

“And you? You have an extra?”

“Backdoor doorknob is coded to my handprint, remember? Come on.”

They walk to the mouth of the alley. Sebastian hesitates, looks quickly in either direction – no one around - then takes the stolen Glock from his jacket and hands it over to Holmes.

He accepts it, but raises his eyebrows. “Don’t you need this?” 

“I can manage without, better than you. And I’ve still got the stun gun, if push comes to shove. Right…”

“Good luck,” Holmes says, and he smiles, a sharp, devilish, excited smile.

And then he’s off.

For a moment Sebastian stands there, not moving. It takes a moment before he can will himself into action, heading into the opposite direction, but…

It’s just that for one second, that smile had looked exactly like Jim’s. 

***

The sun is starting to rise.

Nothing much yet, just a faint lightening at the edge of the horizon. The streets have grown quieter too, the more relaxed partygoers gone home again, leaving only the high and the drunk out on the streets.

Maybe that’s what Holmes has been waiting for, the relative quiet of the streets to quickly spot his pursuers.

Or – the more likely option – maybe Sebastian has been a huge fucking idiot. Holmes was his _captive_. The only reason he wasn’t in chains all the time was that Sebastian was continually at his side – he didn’t even let him sleep alone, and yet, for some obscure, wild reason, he decided that it was a good idea to let Holmes run free, followed by people who are quite likely on his side. He gave Sherlock a gun, for fuck’s sake.

Although the most worrying thing about it all is that it _wasn’t_ a conscious decision. Trusting Holmes to make his own way back seemed natural. Giving him a weapon had felt like a logical thing to do, given both their skills and how they compare. As if Holmes was an ally. As if –

As if he were Jim.

He should just give up. Leave, grab his bag and the Beretta and get the fuck out of here before the Iceman’s men come bursting through the door, Holmes cackling behind them at Sebastian’s stupidity.

Or maybe Holmes has just fucked off on his own. Going back to Italy alone, somehow finding a way to break in there, find the next clue…

He gets up and goes over to the window, looking out.

He’s fucked, without Holmes. He can’t pull this off alone, not with Italy becoming a no-go zone. So he’ll just need to – what, wander around and hope Jim will find him, eventually?

But what if Jim is in danger? What if –

“Didn’t find out anything,” Holmes’ voice suddenly pipes out.

Sebastian whirls.

Holmes carefully closes the door behind him. “I doubled back at one point, tried to see how he’d react. I think he may have called someone, but I was too far away to catch anything of interest. Why are you looking like that?” he adds, irritated.

“You came back.”

“Of course I did,” Holmes says, frowning.

“I didn’t – Never mind.” He quickly goes to the table to put the laptop away. His bag is already packed, everything prepared – thank fuck he hadn’t given up sooner and left before Holmes returned.

But why the hell did he?

He glances up. Holmes is standing at the window, one hand on the curtain, keeping a look-out. For all he knows Holmes actually met up with his pursuer-slash-brother’s agent, exchanged info, then agreed to keep up the charade a little while longer, just in case Sebastian did lead them to Jim.

But that doesn’t explain why they decided to interrupt their search in Aragno. And there’s something else too that makes him think that theory is bullshit, something that has to do with the way Holmes looked when he was interrogating Sebastian about Jim, the hunger in his eyes, the _need_ …

He hoists his bag up. “Ready to leave?”

“I am if you are.”

He goes back to the panel next to the back door and punches in another code. Then he opens the door for Holmes.

“What’s that for?” Holmes asks, gesturing at the panel.

“You’ll see. Out.”

He follows Holmes out, locks the door, and makes his way down again.

Holmes is waiting patiently below. Sebastian looks over his shoulder down the alley. “We need to go, before they catch up again. Although I’m not entirely sure where to, other than – ”

“Antwerp,” Holmes says decidedly.

Sebastian blinks. “Sorry?”

“Odd diamond theft there.” Holmes raises his eyebrows. “I did tell you I had done some research. The whole thing seems like it could have Moriarty’s mind influencing it. Unless you have a better idea?”

“I have no ideas at all.” He runs a hand through his hair, then nods. “Fine. Antwerp. We’ll nab a car, make our way there. Two days’ ride, I reckon, not much more.”

They head out to the street. It’s eerily quiet – somehow they’ve hit the exact time before the first commuters come out but after the final partygoers head home. There is practically no one out apart from them.

Which makes them sitting ducks, if there’s someone lying in wait up there with a rifle.

He shakes it off. Nothing to be done about that now.

“So one of them followed you and the other followed me?” Holmes asks, sounding thoughtful.

“Yeah, they split up. So we can assume that however this started, right now they’re after both of us.”

 “And apparently without wanting to kill us.”

Sebastian shrugs. “Not necessarily. We were both keeping to busy streets for the most part, and in the alley it’s possible we surprised him. Don’t go making any assumptions.”

“Still, it’s remarkable that – ”

But the end of his sentence is swallowed by a loud explosion, close by. Holmes jumps, whirls, eyes wide. Then he nods. “So that was what it was for.”

“No loose ends,” Sebastian says, calmly walking on.

Holmes hurries to catch up with him. “Moriarty and explosives…”

“It’s a thing. Here, let’s take this one.”

They head into an alley, where a few cars are parked. Sebastian looks left, right – no one – then unfolds the strip of metal from his inside pocket and neatly lifts the lock of a blue Volkswagen. They get in the car, and Holmes watches with interest as he bends down beneath the wheel to hotwire the engine.

He shifts into gear and pulls out of the alley. “Antwerp, then,” he says as they head onto the main road. “Reckon we should stay on the smaller roads, avoid the highways, just in case.”

“What about the borders?”

Sebastian snorts. “This is Europe, the borders are tissue paper. Even if there’s an official search order out on either of us, we can just use one of those old smuggler roads.”

“But there isn’t. An official warrant.”

“No. I checked, there’s nothing official on either of us. Not yet, anyway.”

Holmes hums and leans back in his seat. Sebastian eyes him.

The chase doesn’t seem to have ruffled his feathers in any way. He looks quite calm, focused, almost more so than before. Although there’s still an undercurrent of excitement, as if –

As if the bastard’s having _fun_.

“ _Why_?” Sebastian asks.

Holmes looks up. “Why what?”

“Why did you come back, here, to me?”

“I…” And Holmes stops, looking a little disturbed.

Sebastian gestures at the window. “Even if those men aren’t your brother’s, you could have easily sent some other kind of signal to him, a call, a message. Me arrested, you free to do as you please – where’s the downside to that? So why don’t you? Why are you still here, with me, acting like you’ve gone over to the dark side?”

“You would have found me.”

“Possibly, yeah. That’s what stopped you, then, is it?”

Holmes shakes his head, sharply. “You’re persistent,” he says, although he seems more to be trying to convince himself than Sebastian. “You’ve proven that already. And given that the house in Italy is now unavailable to you, your only chance of finding Moriarty would have been through me. You’re clever enough to realise that. You would have found some way to get me back, especially in a city I don’t know and you do, with armed people on our tail.”

“Sound very logical, doesn’t it,” Sebastian says, nodding along.

Holmes glares at him. “Besides, it's not like this situation doesn't have its benefits. It's easier to find Moriarty if I'm with you, if I can use your knowledge of him, rather than doing it alone. The benefits outweigh the negatives.”

Sebastian tilts his head, considering.

Holmes doesn’t like him. He hates the lack of control, the obedience, the total absence of agency he has here. He’s proud in general too, arrogant, absolutely loathes working with other people.

And yet, he’s here.

“You’re telling me you’re putting up with all this,” Sebastian says slowly, “just because the alternative might mean a slightly smaller chance of finding Jim?”

Holmes frowns. “Not just because of that, but yes. It’s worth it. As long as he’s out there, alive, free, he’s a danger. I’m the only one who can stop him.”

Sebastian barks a laugh.

“What?” Holmes says, annoyed.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “So that’s what you’re doing it all for, is it? To get Jim behind bars?”

“Yes, of course, what else would I be doing this for?”

“What else indeed.”

Holmes stares at him, looking confused and more than a little off-balance. Then he huffs. “If you’re trying to _imply_ something…”

“I think you should ask yourself, Holmes, if the end is really worth the means here for you.”

“As if I have a choice,” Holmes sneers. “You’re still keeping me prisoner, aren’t you?”

“Really?” Sebastian jerks the wheel, pulling over, then leans over Holmes and opens the door on his side. “Go on, then. Leave.”

Holmes’ eyes go wide. “What?”

“Think there’s a car up ahead you can steal,” he says, nodding at the alleyway ahead. “I’ll give you a head start. I mean – come on, you’re _Sherlock Holmes_ , great detective. Don’t tell me escaping one ordinary criminal is too much for you.”

Holmes gapes at him.

“Find your brother,” Sebastian says. “Ask for his help, you might just convince him. Or Watson’s, or any of your other little friends. I’m sure that if you explained the situation, they would be more than willing to help you catch the bad guy.”

“I – ”

“Go. Make the logical choice. Go back to your life, Sherlock Holmes. To sanity.“

Holmes continues to stare at him.

Then he closes the door again.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Sebastian says, as he shifts the car back into gear.

“Would you…” Holmes clears his throat. “Would you have really let me go?”

“No,” Sebastian says easily. “But that’s not the point, is it?”

“No.” Holmes stares out of the window. “No, it isn’t.”

 And he doesn't say another word for the rest of the day.

 

 

 


	7. Antwerp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of violence and explicit sex.

Moran is flirting again.

It’s entirely possible he’s doing it subconsciously, that he’s unaware of the effect he has on the people around him. Although it’s hard to imagine anyone not noticing the boy’s bright blush.

He still can’t pinpoint exactly what it is about Moran that draws people to him like that, but he’s starting to see it too; there’s something magnetic about the man. Maybe it has to do with his focus, the intensity of his interest as he talks to someone. There’s looks as well, of course – not only that he’s well-built and athletic, but that he’s got this air of easy, natural, physical confidence hanging around him at all times.

Or maybe it’s something else, maybe it’s tied directly to sex. And that’s –

That’s something he’s not willing to think about.

“ _Allons-y_.” Moran claps him on the shoulder. “ _Nous sommes au huitième.”_

Sherlock frowns at him and mouths _French ?_ Moran’s only reply is a quick wink. Sherlock bites back an annoyed response, falls in step behind Sebastian, then glances over his shoulder.

The receptionist is sending him a look that is one hundred percent _envious_.

Sherlock waits until they're inside the elevator before he speaks. “You do realise this is the Dutch-speaking part of Belgium? Why the French?”

“Because if there is a price on either of us, they’ll be looking for two Englishmen. The French might throw ‘em off.”

“You could’ve just spoken Dutch.”

“I couldn’t,” Moran says easily. “About the only thing I can say in Dutch is _kust men klote_ , and I doubt my accent passes.”

“So there is a European language you don’t speak.”

“Only the ugly ones,” Moran says. “There we are. Remember – French.”

The lift pings. They’re barely out before Moran slings his arm around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock grits his teeth. All part of the cover, and if they’re really looking through the cameras they’ll disregard the gay couple. Still, it’s –

Annoying.

They break apart again as soon as the door closes behind them. Sherlock shivers in disgust and Moran shoots him a quick mocking look, then drops the bag onto the floor.

Sherlock makes his way to the window, looks out. “Do you think they followed us?” he asks, looking at the people milling around below.

“All the way from Berlin? Unlikely. But they probably can pick up our trail again.”

“How?” Sherlock asks. “We didn’t leave any trace.”

“These days, it’s virtually impossible - pun very much intended - to leave no traces whatsoever.” Moran joins him by the window, looking out pensively. “And I still don’t understand how the hell they found the place in Italy so who the fuck knows, maybe they’re storming the hotel as we speak.”

“Shouldn’t we be readying our guns, then?” Sherlock asks, dryly.

“I was exaggerating, I checked, no one followed us.” He nods outside. “Nothing suspicious there, right?”

Sherlock runs his eyes over the people outside – _businessman businessman family student_ – and shakes his head. “Seems we are safe for the moment.”

 “Mmhm. At least for a few days, more if we're careful.” Moran goes to the bed and drops down, eyes closed. “So. Talk me through this thing you found.”

“There isn’t that much, yet. They’re hushing it up. No surprise there, they probably want to avoid the _police incompetence_ headlines.”

“What was stolen?”

“Some kind of rare jewel, high-carat diamond. Grandly announced in all the international newspapers beforehand, discreetly and safely locked away in a banker’s safe the night before the exhibition would start, and by morning it was gone. Official line is that the exhibition is being temporarily put on hold because of a terrorist threat.”

“Stealing a rare jewel the night before it’s shown to the world?” Moran asks, raising an eyebrow. “You think he’d be that showy?”

Sherlock gives him a look. “He broke into the Tower of London to steal the crown jewels.”

“Yeah, but that was _supposed_ to be showy. That was part of the plan. Just stealing something for the fun of it… Doesn’t sound like him.” Moran frowns. “Or maybe it does. He’s been alone for a pretty long time, now.”

“Think he’s snapped?”

“Think he’s got bored. Your lot does weird things when you get bored.”

“My l- ” He pauses, stifles a yawn. “My lot?”

“Geniuses.” Moran gets up from the bed. “We’ll have a look around tomorrow, have a chat with the local police, see if they can give us any hint.”

“I’ll check the Interpol database, see if – ”

“You,” Moran says pointedly, “will go to bed.”

“I’m not tired yet,” Sherlock says, then winces as he actually _hears_ the words.

The corners of Moran’s mouth twitch up. “Well, it’s time for widdle Sherlock’s nap-time, so – ”

“Put me in bed right now and I _will_ keep you awake.”

“Sounds like a promise.” Moran pulls his shirt over his head and throws it over a chair, then starts on his shoes. “Be reasonable. We’ve been driving for two days straight. Besides, you’re not nearly as good at hiding your exhaustion as you seem to think you are. How are the ribs, by the way?”

“Better,” Sherlock says, a little surprised. He feels at his ribcage, gauging the pain – just a sliver of it left, now, and only when he puts on pressure. Nothing serious.

“Good. If this escape-plan hasn’t worked, we’ll need you in fighting shape. Unless you’ve relaxed a bit on that no-killing rule…?”

“Not until we know who they are.”

“Then I hope for both our sakes’ you’ve got a good right hook.” Stripped down to his boxers, Moran stretches, then gets into bed. “You’re stalling again.”

“I don’t feel like sleeping yet.”

“Get. _In_.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but starts undressing. He knows by now Moran is perfectly capable of chaining him to the bed, if he thinks it’s necessary.

Luckily it’s still the usual kingsize, wide enough to easily accommodate them both without any risk of touching. Sherlock changes into a T-shirt and clean boxers, then gets on the right side of the bed, pulling the duvet along.

“Night night,” Moran says, eyes closed but grinning.

Bastard.

It’s not quite dark yet, sunlight falling through the thin curtains. It doesn’t feel like day, either, though. The reddish half-light mixed with the muted sound of voices outside makes the room feel odd, dreamlike. Unreal.

Sherlock lies on his back, staring at the ceiling. After a few minutes, Moran’s breathing falls into its usual, oddly reassuring pattern.

In, out, pause. In, out, pause. In, out…

The last two weeks or so, that pattern alone has been enough to lull Sherlock to sleep. But, for some reason, today it only draws his attention.

He sighs, then closes his eyes and lets his awareness of Moran deepen. Close. Warm. Heavy. Solid, as he turns around and the mattress shifts beneath Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock turns onto his side, opens his eyes again. The sheets have slipped down, revealing Moran’s bare back, the scars.

_JM_

He reaches out, slowly. Moran’s shoulders move slightly with each breath.

Moriarty did that. At one point in their relationship Moriarty asked – or forced, or coerced, or persuaded – Moran to lie on his stomach and he took a knife, not a scalpel by the width of the lines but an actual hunting knife of some sort, and then very deliberately and slowly – the lines are incredibly straight and accurate – cut his initials into Moran’s back, deep enough to lose a significant amount of blood, deep enough to leave scars that are still visible almost, what, a decade later?

He stops his fingers just shy of touching Moran. He can feel the heat of him, radiating off him.

Three years ago and it would have been Moriarty, in bed with Moran. Sleeping with him.

After having sex with him.

Moran groans and rolls over. Sherlock quickly pulls his hand back.

Moran’s eyes open. “Why are you still awake?” he mumbles.

Sherlock makes a show of rolling his eyes. “I _told_ you, I don’t feel like sleeping yet.”

Moran grunts and turns onto his back, drifting off to sleep again. His face relaxes, his mouth opening slightly on a breath. He swallows, adam’s apple bobbing underneath the skin of his throat, then his tongue slips out briefly to lick his bottom lip.

Sherlock breathes in deeply.

Then he turns his back to Moran and tries to get some sleep.

***

“Interpol,” Moran snaps. “Agents Hansen and Nyborg. We’re here for the diamond case. _Où est votre chef?_ ”

The policemen scatter in a panic, barely even paying attention to the badge Moran is holding up. A badge which Sherlock saw him cook up from basically nothing just this morning, in fact.

Amazing how that works. Look the part, and the rest will follow. And sound the part, of course. Interestingly, Moran’s English has gone accented, that kind of undefined generic-European slant that could be anything from Scandinavian to Spanish.

A harried-looking woman in plainclothes hurries in their general direction. Sherlock exchanges a quick look with Moran, then steps back a little.

They’d agreed on their roles on the way here. Moran would do the talking, using his usual charm and aura of superiority to ease people into obedience, and Sherlock would hang back, observe, and - in case there was anything worth noticing - report back later.

It’s interesting, as far as plans go. On the whole, he’s more used to being the one taking lead. Being able to hand the social interaction over to someone else and instead concentrating on what’s really important seems like an odd luxury.

“They didn't tell me someone would be coming,” the presumably-detective says as she comes up to them. “There was no message – ”

“There doesn’t need to be one. Show us the case,” Moran barks.

The detective-inspector – or whatever the local equivalent is – seems briefly close to barking right back, then visibly restrains herself and turns on her heel. “This way, please.”

_“Si vous préférez le français…”_

“Uh, yes, thank you, English is fine, please.”

She leads the way into a small room, filled with folder-laden desks and one large whiteboard, full of pictures and scribbled notes. Moran strides straight in, but Sherlock hesitates at the doorstep, just for a moment.

It’s nothing special, not really, but the familiarity of it…He almost expects Donovan to be lounging at the desk behind him, Lestrade stepping out from the door at the end of the room, John –

No. No, he’s not going to think about John now.

“You know we have already found the diamond, right,” the detective-inspector says.

Sherlock almost whirls in surprise, but Moran, admirably, doesn’t even blink. “I’m just wondering about the decision not to tell the public,” he says, smooth as can be.

“We have a better chance to find the – the person behind this if we don’t say anything.” She pulls the whiteboard towards her. “We found it two days ago, in the stomach of a turkey.”

There’s a strange pause.

“A turkey,” Moran repeats, slowly.

“No idea why. We have interrogated the people of the store, they know nothing, we’re sure.”

“And how exactly did you find this?” Sherlock asks sharply.

“The kitchen’s help took the turkey, cut it open, was very surprised to find the diamond inside. We asked – we interrogated him, and he, how do you say it? Checks out. The farm where he bought the turkey also.” She shrugs. “No other leads.”

“All right, thanks for the info,” Moran says. “Can you give us a few moments with the evidence, please?”

She huffs, and again she looks like she would much rather just say _no_. But she does cave in. “Of course.”

Moran nods at her and she makes to leave.

Then she turns again. “Who is your supervisor? I didn’t hear.”

“Our boss?” Moran asks casually, attention already focused mostly on the whiteboard. “Erik Larsson, Division 4H, major theft.”

She humphs and goes off. The second the door is closed, Sherlock turns to Moran. “How long do we have?”

“Hm? As long as we need.”

“She’s thorough,” Sherlock says impatiently. “She’s not just going to call him, she might call friends, colleagues, check the website, and the moment she finds out he’s fake – ”

“What makes you think he’s a fake?” Moran asks, eyes still on the whiteboard.

Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it again. “Erik Larsson really is the Division Head at Interpol?”

“Yep. And he knows exactly to confirm whatever is necessary when someone asks about _agent Hansen._ Now…” Moran turns to him. “What do you think?”

Sherlock tilts his head, then gets his phone out. He quickly googles local farmers, looks up the road maps, finds the relevant farmer’s website and looks through the details, then checks one or two more entries in the reported crimes and –

“Got it.”

“Really?” Moran says, surprised. “That was quick.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “The diamond was stolen before it even arrived here. The real diamond was exchanged for a fake while it was still en route to Antwerp – it wasn’t transported in the transport van but in another car, undercover, in an attempt to throw off potential thieves. Unfortunately, it backfired: the driver conspired with another person and pretended to have car trouble. In the brief moment the person in charge of the diamond left the car, the diamond was exchanged for the fake, the real one now being in possession of the driver, who was supposed to hand it over to a helpful passing chauffeur, who of course would be their accomplice. However, because of a major traffic jam on the E17 the accomplice couldn’t get there in time, leaving our driver in a rather difficult situation: the real diamond in their pocket, the fake now under the watchful eye of the person responsible, and in full knowledge that both they and the car would be thoroughly searched when they arrived, as per protocol. So he panicked and chucked it over the hedge, where it got hidden away in a pile of animal feed. The fake diamond got delivered to the banker, who – in a hurry to get to the press conference – skipped the step of checking the diamond’s realness and so didn’t realise it was a fake until late that night. Embarrassed to admit he was at fault, he staged a burglary. Meanwhile our driver had returned to the farm, only to discover that the diamond had disappeared – eaten, quite likely, by one of the turkeys. The driver started on a desperate search to find the turkey and the diamond, not knowing that the turkey in question had already been sold off to a restaurant specialised in poultry, which slaughters its animals itself for maximum freshness and where one of the kitchen boys was rather surprised to find something shiny inside one of the stomachs he was turning into mince.” 

Sherlock turns.

Moran is staring at him.

“That surprised?” Sherlock asks, one eyebrow up.

“You know all of that by looking at your phone for five minutes?” Moran asks, voice slightly hoarse.

“Two minutes. Five minutes and I could have given you the names of all parties concerned.”

Moran opens his mouth, closes it again. His expression – wide-eyed, disbelieving, but not sceptical, and then it changes to bright-eyed admiration and for a moment he looks so much like John that it _hurts_  –

And then he coughs. “So, er…”

“It’s an accident,” Sherlock says, dragging his mind back to the present. “Unplanned. Sloppy. Improvised, and badly.”

They look at each other.

“Come on,” Moran says, “let’s get out of here before DI squint-and-glare comes back.”

***

They walk slowly across the square, avoiding the swathes of tourists. Sherlock’s head is pounding. It’s difficult to concentrate, and for once he’s grateful for Moran’s presence. He doesn’t have to pay any attention to their environment at all; just walk at Moran’s side and he’ll guide him through.

“You’re sure?” Moran asks, after a while.

“Ninety-nine percent.”

“Well, fuck.” Moran briefly closes his eyes, face tilted towards the watery sun. “I’d hoped – I mean, you have tracked him down before, right? You’ve recognised his hand in cases, noticed his style…”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, “but it isn’t an exact science.”

“Yeah.”

They walk on in silence.

Sherlock rubs his forehead. The city is onslaught of his senses – the guides in all languages yelling at their groups, the loud teenagers speaking words he doesn’t understand, the smell of chips and waffles and pizza mixing with the other typical city smells, and underlying all that the disappointment of a clue turning out to be nothing and the memory of John and the Yard…

Suddenly a hand comes around his arm – Moran, pulling him along to a building, a big door, stone and wood – a church.

Moran plonks him down on a pew and sits down next to him. It’s quiet inside, cool, scents of old stone and incense and wood and nothing else. No tourists. No food stalls.

Blessed calm.

Sherlock leans back on the bench, breathes out. Moran does nothing, just sits there, waiting.

“I didn’t used to do this,” Sherlock mutters after a few minutes. “I didn’t used to have these – well, not at this level, anyway.”

“You’re out of your comfort zone,” Moran says. “Everything is unfamiliar here. And given all the excitement we’ve had recently… Makes sense that you’re a bit more, er, _vulnerable_ than other times.”

Sherlock glares at Moran, who simply smiles at him. There’s still mockery, but it’s almost – kind. A bit like John would have –

God _dammit_.

“I think I miss home,” Sherlock says. “London.”

“Me too.”

Sherlock turns his head, frowns at Moran. Moran smiles again.

“It’s my home too, you know. Been my home for almost a decade.”

“Thought you said you travelled a lot.”

“I did. I didn’t even know what _home_ meant, before I met Jim. Moved in with him. But it’s not just – it’s London, you know? The streets. The buses. The underground.”

Sherlock hums, closes his eyes, indulging in the memories, just for a moment.

Then he runs his hands through his hair and tries to focus, stamping down the memories. The case, that's important. He clears his throat, then says, “I think I'm fine again.”

“Sure?” Moran asks. “I mean, it's not like we're in rush or anything, if you need a couple of moments more...”

He gives Moran an ironic glance. “Shouldn't you be the one telling me if I need more time or not? Since you're so _obviously_ excellent at interpreting my moods.”

“I know the warning signs of a genius in meltdown, that's all,” Moran says with a shrug.

Sherlock shakes his head. “It's hard to imagine Moriarty being this - ”

“Vulnerable?” Moran stares at the altar in silence, mind obviously miles away. “He hid it better than you do. Managed it better too, most of the time. And he knew how to ask for help - well, not _ask_ , per se, he took rather than requested, but, you know. Same effect.”

“Help...” Sherlock mutters.

“In whatever shape or form I could give.” He tilts his head. “You never considered that?”

“No,” Sherlock says curtly. 

“Huh.” Moran shakes his head, then turns to Sherlock. “So, what now? We find another suspicious-looking case?”

Sherlock blinks. “Not so much suspicious, no,” he says, considering. “Rather… Think cases that are too clean, too neat, that seem like they’re hiding something.”

Moran snorts. “Crimes that don’t look like crimes?”

“Something like it.” He tilts his head. “It’s not as impossible as it sounds, I’ve done it before. And we don’t exactly have another option, do we?”

Moran stays quiet for a while. Then he shakes his head. “No. No, We don’t. Christ.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Then he stands up. “Right. You’re ready?”

Sherlock stands up, looks around the church. The now, the present. The memories can stay where they were, and John, well, John is safe in London.

“Let’s get back to work,” Sherlock says.

***

They spend most of the day going through newspapers, websites, even a few law enforcement databases. There’s nothing really that catches his eye – or rather, there are plenty of things, but he can’t distinguish between them, there is not one in particular that stands out from the others.

By the time the church bells ring midnight, the letters on the page are getting blurry. He blinks, yawns, then stands up. “I’m going to bed.”

Moran looks up and pulls a mock-surprised face. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Fuck you,” Sherlock says as he heads to the bathroom.

Moran laughs. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve heard you curse?” he yells through the door.

Sherlock flushes the toilet and goes back to the bedroom. “You’ve obviously rubbed off on me,” he says as he strips.

“Not nearly as much as I’d like,” Moran says, with a lazy leer.

Sherlock bends over their bag to get his pyjamas, turning his back to Moran. Hiding his face.

It’s hardly the first time Moran has mode some lecherous remark, and Sherlock has never had any trouble ignoring him. The flirtatious quips and innuendo were nothing but another way to get under his skin, to rile him, and he’s damned if he’s going to give Moran the satisfaction of reacting. But -

Well, it’s not entirely just pestering Sherlock, is it? Moran is a man of loose sexual morals; from the little Sherlock has been able to puzzle together, before Moriarty he was used to regular sex, multiple partners, and with Moriarty…

He grits his teeth, forcing his mind to abandon that train of thought, and gets into bed, hands behind his head, eyes on the ceiling.

He can hear Moran move around. His footsteps, the creak of a chair and rustle of fabric as he sits down, his fingers tapping on the keyboard. Strange, how used he is to that, this nearness. If before all this someone would have told him he’d be forced to spend weeks, months in constant close proximity with someone he doesn’t even like, he would have considered it hell. And he had, at first.

At first. Not anymore.

When did that happen?

“Are you coming to bed?” Sherlock asks the ceiling.

“Yeah, yeah, give me a minute…”

Sherlock pushes up onto his elbow. There’s a flash of that strange programme Moran keeps using, and then the screen goes black.

Sherlock drops down again, pulling the sheets over him. After a few minutes, the lights go off and the bed dips. Once again, even though Moran courteously keeps distance between them, Sherlock can feel the warmth coming off him. There's the usual pattern, small movements at first while he's getting comfortable, and then he settles and his breathing goes slow, and deep.

Sherlock closes his eyes, listens, matching his breathing, feeling his mind let go.

Floating.

Drifting…

_Sherlock – John yells, and there’s the click of the detonator and –_

_\- and there’s a red light dancing on his chest, following wherever he turns, wherever he runs, someone’s high laughter in his ears, and someone is crying but he can’t reach them, too slow, stuck on a puzzle he can’t solve. Sorry, he gasps out, and there’s more laughter and an explosion, leaving his ears ringing. The explosion has blown the ground away, leaving deep dark blackness. The abyss gapes before him – you’re me – and his foot hovers over nothing, SHERLOCK someone yells and he turns to look his balance shifts and_

_he_

_falls -_

“The _fuck_ is happening?”

Bedroom, light, bed, safe, not falling, _safe_ , someone next to him, his heart is hammering, person talking –

Moran.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, trying to force the panic down, then when that inevitably fails he jumps up from bed, pacing across the room.

His skin feels like it’s buzzing, too much movement, too much _energy_  like the itch of cocaine withdrawal, the –

“Can I switch off the light again?” Moran asks.

“No.”

Moran groans and drops back, pulling the sheets over his head. Sherlock breathes out heavily. His stomach is cramping, and it’s just biochemistry, plain and simple, just an overdose of adrenaline but that doesn’t explain the way his mind just keeps running in circles, over and over and over and -

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Moran asks, throwing back the covers in one explosive angry movement. “You've never had it this bad before. Can’t you at least stop fucking pacing?”

“No,” Sherlock says. “Can’t.”

“Why?”

“If I stop I’ll I’ll – ” He waves his hand, squeezes his eyes shut. “I have too much excess energy, I’m going mad if I have to stay still. It happens sometimes, I – ”

And his thoughts take off again, tormenting him with the image of the darkness before him, his foot hovering above nothing and that horrible weightless sensation of -  _no_ , goddamit, he needs to focus, there's something nagging at his thoughts, something that could stop this horrid maelstrom that could help - 

_Help._

_\- he knew how to ask for help -_

_\- something to link him back to the now -_

_\- a way to turn all the thoughts off -_

Sherlock’s eyes snap open. “Sex.”

“Pardon?” 

He turns to Moran. “Moriarty. Your solution, your help. It was sex, right?”

“I… yeah, I suppose so.” Moran shakes his head. “But that’s hardly a solution that’s available to you, is it? So… I don’t know, can’t you – ”

“Why not?”

Moran blinks. “Sorry?”

“Why isn’t it available to me?”

“Well, you…” Moran frowns. “You don’t do this kind of thing.”

“What if I did?”

_Stupid. Stupid, dangerous, stupid, reckless, stop it, stop it now before it -_

 “Sorry?” Moran asks again.

“I said, _what if I did_. Want. To have sex.”

“You mean, you want me to…” Moran says, looking utterly surprised.

“Well, you have been offering almost since the moment we met,” Sherlock sneers. “Don’t tell me you’re going to back out now.”

Moran slowly shakes his head. “This isn’t a game. If you’re just trying to one-up me…”

“I made a simple request.”

Moran opens his mouth, and then something changes in his expression, the shadows playing across his face. “You didn’t, actually.”

“What?”

“You didn’t ask anything. You just alluded. So if you’re serious about this…” Moran slowly sits up, eyes fixed on Sherlock. “Then ask.”

Sherlock licks his lips. “I…”

“Yes?”

“I want…”

Moran shakes his head in disgust. “Thought as much. You can’t even get the words out, let alone – ”

“Does it matter?” Sherlock asks impatiently. “Whether I call it _sex_ or _fucking_ or _intercourse_ , what does it change?”

“You can’t even _consider_ the idea of yourself having sex.” Moran turns away from him. “You just - throw an idea out there, with no intention of following through, and frankly I’m sick of – ”

“I know _exactly_ what I’m asking fo-”

“- you haven’t got a fucking clue what you’re on – ”

“- would think that after two years without Moriarty you would’ve – ”

Moran suddenly stands up in one smooth, catlike movement.

In the dim shine of the night light, he looks oddly inhuman. More predator than man.

“You don’t know,” Moran says, in a low voice, “what you’re asking for.”

“Then show me,” Sherlock says, and there’s a shake in his voice he can only just disguise.

Moran’s expression darkens, and then he moves and before Sherlock can parse what’s happening he’s pressed against the wall, Moran’s hands around his throat and wrist.

“If you think I have any fucking patience left for your games,” Moran says, voice low and constrained and _angry_ , “you’re fucking wrong.”

“This isn’t a game,” Sherlock says, voice strained because Moran’s hand around his throat is just tight enough, and the grip on his wrist much too hard and it’s -

Moran’s eyes seem to flare, and from somewhere, Mycroft’s voice comes out.

_\- why must you insist on playing with fire -_

“ _Stop it_ ,” Moran snaps. “If you were in your right mind you’d never even consider this. Get your control back, you - ”

Sherlock breaks Moran’s grip. Moran gets his hands between them, putting them on Sherlock’s chest to push him away, but Sherlock twists and grabs Moran’s neck and his mouth hits Moran’s.

For a moment it’s – horrible. Too close, too intimate, violating, disgusting –

Then Moran takes Sherlock’s neck and tilts his head, pushes him back against the wall and his teeth tug at Sherlock’s bottom lip and there’s a tongue, at some point, and Moran’s hand is low on Sherlock’s waist warm through the fabric of his T-shirt and it’s dizzying and he can’t keep track of it and it’s –

Moran breaks off. Sherlock takes a huge panting breath.

The room is spinning.

“There,” Moran says, sounding oddly bitter. “Distracted?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, tries to think of something to say, comes up blank.

Moran makes a disgusted noise and walks out, to the balcony.

***

Moran doesn’t look at Sherlock when he eventually joins him on the balcony. He’s smoking, leaning on the banister, face thoughtful, distant.

Sherlock leans next to him, trying to catch some of the stray smoke, shivering. But in a way, the cold is welcome. 

He waits, eyes on the city lights, extremely painfully aware of Moran’s closeness.

“Word of advice,” Moran says, after a while. “Don’t try that with anyone else.”

“Why not?”

Moran takes a long deep drag of his cigarette. “Because,” he says, with exaggerated patience, “normal people would try to have normal sex with you and you’d panic.”

Sherlock takes a moment to chew this over. “ _Normal_ sex?”

“I’m not talking about whips and chains, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He smiles. “Although that can certainly be part of it, if you want to,” he adds, and there’s something about the way he says _you_ that makes Sherlock shiver. Moran notices, and his smile grows.

Sherlock looks away, back to the familiar-unfamiliar city scape beneath them. “Then what?” he asks, trying to focus.

“Acting on your sex drive. Taking what you want. Most people assume the person they’re fucking knows what they like. You…” Moran gives him a fleeting look. “You know fuck-all about any of this. You’re like a child, blundering around with a bazooka you can’t even find the off switch for.”

“Other people have sex even when they lack experience.”

“Yeah, but other people aren’t you.” Sebastian takes another deep drag from his cigarette. “You live so deep in your own head that you’ve lost all connection to the physical side of things. To relearn that… It can be rough, if it isn’t handled sensitively.” 

“And that’s what you did with Moriarty? _Handled it sensitively_?”

Moran looks at him. “Yes.”

“Ah,” Sherlock says, throat suddenly dry.

“So,” Moran says. He flicks his cigarette butt over the banister, then straightens up and turns to face Sherlock fully. “What are we going to do about this?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath.

Then he says, teeth gritted around the words, “I want you to fuck me.”

“Well then.” Moran pushes the door of the balcony further open and gestures Sherlock inside, all ostentatious courtesy. Sherlock turns and walks back inside, feeling Moran following him.

His heart is hammering, palms sweating, even though the cold from outside has seeped into the room. Moran closes the balcony doors behind them and suddenly the room is very quiet, the only sounds Moran’s bare feet on the carpet as he advances on Sherlock, an expression on his face that’s –

Sherlock takes a step back, reflexively. Moran gives him a wry smile and holds his hands up in apology. “Sorry,” he says easily. “I’m used to – ”

“What’s in this for you?” Sherlock interrupts.

“Me? Curiosity, mostly. And… Well, this might be difficult for you to understand, but I do enjoy this.”

“What, sex?”

“Yeah. And more precisely, this kind of sex. A challenge, I suppose.” He pulls his t-shirt over his head.

It’s odd, Sherlock has seen him plenty of times without his shirt on, or even entirely naked, and he never spent any thought on it beyond a quick search for clues. But now, it’s…

“I’m not sure if I…” Sherlock says, mouth suddenly dry.

“Chickening out, are you?” Moran sits down on the bed. “Just try. That way you will know for sure.”

“If this is a trick…”

“It might be. Might not be.” Moran gives him a sharklike grin. “But you’re not going to pass on the opportunity to find out, are you?”

Sherlock shakes his head, then starts unbuttoning his shirt.

“Toldya I know how you work,” Moran says smugly.

“Don’t be too sure.”

“Well, I’d hope for your sake that I am, actually,” Moran says. “Otherwise this might end badly.”

Sherlock’s fingers falter for a moment on his buttons, before he forces himself to continue. Moran is right, he isn't going to pass on this opportunity. He wants this, needs this, with the energy of the nightmare still running through his system, but it’s more than just that; he’s been wanting to try this ever since…

_\- a way to turn all the thoughts off –_

He drops his shirt to the ground. Moran stands up and pushes his boxers down, and he’s naked, and that’s all good and well as long as he’s over there, far away, but now he’s coming close and –

And his hand is on the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Stop panicking,” Moran says softly. “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to.”

“Really?” Sherlock asks, his voice surprisingly steady. “I thought you’d jump on the opportunity to take advantage of me.”

Moran gives him a patient, wry look. “In the time since I’ve found you in Serbia, have I done anything to outright harm you?”

“You threatened to.”

“But did I?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it again.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Moran says, and then he leans in and kisses Sherlock.

It’s very… calm, this time. Nothing but Moran’s hand at his nape and his lips sliding over Sherlock’s, and it’s – it’s nice, oddly tingly, but far less overwhelming than the last one. And he wants that, wants the rest to be drowned out so he grabs Moran and pulls him close, experimentally bites down on Moran’s lip and Moran groans, his hand sliding up to tangle in Sherlock’s hair and he pulls, just a little, arm coming around Sherlock’s waist pulling him close, stomach to stomach and –

And Moran pushes him off again. Not all the way, hands still on Sherlock’s hips. “Stop that,” he says, annoyed.

“Why?” Sherlock asks. “Weren’t you going to do only what I want?”

“Yeah, but like I said, you don’t know what you wan –” Moran breaks off and pulls a face. “Christ, I sound like an arsehole. Look, it’s just – this is just the start, okay? And it’s only going to get more as things progress, so if you start this – this high, you’re going to need to back out before we really get anywhere. If that makes sense?”

Sherlock gives a reluctant nod.

“Good. Now take off your pants and sit down on the bed, back against the wall.”

He takes a deep breath, then does as he’s told. Moran joins him, throwing his leg over Sherlock’s hips and bending down, kissing him again.

Moran is right, this _is_ more. Just a little, the kiss still relatively careful but he can feel Moran now, his weight on Sherlock’s thighs, his sides beneath Sherlock’s hands. His knees are pressing into Sherlock’s hips and it’s almost like feeling trapped, but it’s just –

Just on the right side.

Moran pulls away from Sherlock’s mouth and kisses down his jaw, to his throat, just beneath the bone and it’s a sharp flash of – of something –

Sherlock gasps, then grabs Moran’s neck and pulls him off. Moran lets him, but he keeps his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck, fingers carefully stroking the spot he just kissed. Getting him used to the sensation.

Sherlock closes his eyes and drops his head back, breathing through it for a moment, taking his time to familiarise himself with the feeling of – of this much body contact, skin against skin. He can’t remember the last time he ever felt this thoroughly _touched_.

Possibly he never was.

“Back with me?” Moran asks.

Sherlock nods. “Do it again.”

Moran bends over Sherlock’s throat and traces his tongue just underneath his jaw, then down, next to his adam’s apple. Sherlock shudders, nerve endings firing enthusiastically, warmth pooling low in his stomach, and – and yes, he’s getting hard. That’s hardly ever happened before.

“Thought you’d be more work than this,” Moran mutters as he slides his hand down over Sherlock’s chest to his hip, and how does he – Oh. Right. He must be able to feel…

Moran shifts back a little. He runs his palm flat over Sherlock’s thigh, fingers brushing his hip and he wants, he _wants_ Moran to move his hand just a little to the right. Not a conscious thing, but a physical thing, his body screaming out the need to be touched.

“How are you doing?” Moran asks.

“Fine,” Sherlock says, staring entranced at Moran’s hand, still stroking his thigh, his stomach.

“How’re the thoughts?”

“Hm?”

Moran snorts, then pulls his hand away. Sherlock makes a little noise at the loss of contact, but then Moran hovers his fingers over Sherlock’s crotch.

He doesn’t touch. Not straight away. As if he’s waiting for something – no, that’s not it, he’s waiting for Sherlock.

Sherlock gives a small nod.

And Moran’s fingers close around his cock.

It… It isn’t comparable in any way to his own hand. Unpredictability, yes, but it is more than that, far more. He closes his eyes, lets the sensation wash over him, then makes a noise as the hand moves and it’s –

But then it stops. Just Moran’s fingers, on Sherlock’s cock, not moving.

He breathes out slowly, opens his eyes again, and finds Moran watching him, with a sharpness of focus that makes him start.

The corner of Moran’s mouth quirks up. “Easy,” he says, as if he’s calming down some kind of panicked animal.

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but the words turn into another moan as Moran slowly tightens his grip, then slides higher, thumb briefly swiping over the tip of his cock.

“Still with me?” Moran asks, and there’s amusement in the words but it’s not mean, it’s – it’s too complicated to keep track of right now.

Sherlock nods.

Moran’s pale eyes drop back to Sherlock’s crotch. He’s frowning slightly, as if he’s concentrating the way he would to defuse a bomb, open a safe. He changes his grip again, slowly sliding his hand up and down, and his eyes keep flicking between Sherlock’s cock and his face and that of itself is doing something, the helplessness of this, the trembling running down his body and -

“Wait,” Sherlock chokes.

Moran immediately stops moving. His hand is still on Sherlock’s cock, and his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face and if only he could damn well _turn away…_

And then he does, dropping his eyes, gaze unfocused.

Sherlock blinks, just enough mental room left to be surprised. Did he say… no, he didn’t, it’s too complicated to form words right now. So Moran just… knew?

“Tell me when you’re there,” Moran says, with infinite patience.

Sherlock manages a wry smile. “Not getting – getting annoyed, then?”

“No,” Moran says simply, eyes still averted. He looks calm. Confident.

He’s at home here. This is a specialty of his, just as much as dodging spies and picking locks is – possibly even more so.

He knows what to do.

Another shiver runs down Sherlock’s spine and Moran notices, immediately looking up again. “Want me to let go?” he asks, something almost like _concern_ on his face.

Sherlock shakes his head. Moran may have the patience of particularly lascivious saint, but there’s an urgency building deep and low in Sherlock’s stomach. Desire, maybe. Need.

“Yes?” Moran asks.

Sherlock nods.

Moran’s fingers move again. Slower than the few times Sherlock had tried this, more deliberate, unhurried. His other hand hooks behind Sherlock’s neck, pulling him into a kiss, as deliberate as the movement of his hand, lips sliding against Sherlock’s, a touch of his tongue and his teeth, briefly catching on Sherlock’s bottom lip, sending a spark all the way down to his cock. His fingers slide down to Sherlock’s shoulder, his waist, and caught between those triple points of contact it isn’t long before he’s taut like a bow string, quivering at every touch, holding onto Moran’s shoulders like it’s preventing him from slipping away, and _still_ Moran is moving like he’s only just started.

Then he lets go, lifting his knee from over Sherlock’s legs.

“What – ” Sherlock starts, reeling with the loss of contact.

“Mouth,” Moran says curtly.

“You – oh. Yes.”

Moran shoots him a brief amused look, then leans down and kisses Sherlock’s stomach. Anticipation tightens his muscles, Moran’s breath warm against his skin as he moves down. By the time he’s reached Sherlock’s hipbones there’s that feeling again, of wanting desperately to force Moran somehow those few inches down, even though he doesn’t even know what that would feel like. But he needs – he needs some kind of contact or it’s –

Moran shoots him another look, serious, gauging. “Yeah?”

“Y- Yes.”

He closes his mouth over Sherlock’s cock.

It’s – it’s incomparable. Warmth, heat, pressure exactly hard enough and it’s, it’s a lot, a lot to take in, a lot to process –

And then it’s gone again, the air cold against his cock and the bed shifts and there’s a hand on his cheek. “Stop it.”

He blinks. Moran. “What?”

“Stop thinking, stop ana- _look at me_.”

He blinks again, focuses on Moran’s face. Familiar, with those stark grey eyes, but they’re dark now, pupils big.

“Stop analysing,” Moran says, softly. “Just let it happen.”

Sherlock shakes his head, dazed.

“You’re trying to control something you can’t control,” Moran says, a strange lilt to his words. “Distancing yourself from something that’s too intense to block out entirely. Accept it now, or you’re going to snap out of it when it gets too much and it’ll be too big of a shock to process. All right?”

Sherlock licks his lips.

“Take it,” Moran says, and this time apart from the calm and the patience there’s heat, and forcefulness, and it should annoy him but instead it makes heat flare up again, need becoming for just a second almost unbearable, and he wants, wants touch, want to pull Moran close, press him down, throw him on his back and take what he wants, whatever that may be.

Moran grins, eyes dancing, and then he shuffles lower on the bed and grabs Sherlock’s hips firmly and his lips slide warm, wet, perfect around Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock bites down on the inside of his cheek, hips moving almost without any conscious thought, thrusting up. Moran moves with it, at first, and then he puts his arm across Sherlock’s stomach, forcing him down as he continues to suck Sherlock’s cock, and then his lips slide low, lower, impossibly deep and Sherlock bites down hard, tastes blood, and at some point he grabbed hold of Moran’s hair, but it’s not enough and he moves, scrabbling at Moran’s shoulder, his back, because it’s not enough and it’s too much at the same time and it’s, no, not –

Moran is close again – when did he change position – and he kisses Sherlock, hard, their teeth clacking together before Sherlock gets the feel of it again. Moran’s tongue pushes past Sherlock’s lips, and it’s good, it’s nice, but his cock is doing nothing but brushing up against Moran’s thigh and that’s maddening, so he blindly grabs Moran’s hand and pulls it down.

Moran laughs. He shifts, his weight on Sherlock’s legs briefly growing heavier, and then his fingers are on Sherlock’s cock again and there’s touch on his thigh, on his stomach and Sherlock moans, arches up against Moran, throwing his arms around his back and pulling him closer, desperately wanting more, more touch, more contact, more pressure, just –

Just _wanting_.

Moran lets go and goes down again, his lips around Sherlock’s cock, sliding down, sucking, his arm heavy on Sherlock’s stomach fingers roaming over his chest and he can’t keep still anymore but Moran doesn’t seem bothered, he just keeps going and -

_\- Take it –_

Sherlock gasps for air, eyes squeezed shut, as the pleasure suddenly spikes, close to something, close to –

And then he crashes over, desirepleasurelust, and –

And.

And then

There’s

Silence.

 _Finally_.

He’s shaking.

His skin feels hot. Something wet is sticking to his thighs. His breath is slowing down, heartbeat too.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Moran says, next to him. Sherlock slowly turns his head and watches him slide out of the bed and go to the bathroom.

Sherlock briefly closes his eyes. Basking.

So _that’s_ why people kill for this. 

After a while Moran comes back. He sits down on the bed, back against the headboard and legs stretched out in front of him. His lips are a little red, swollen, and his hair is unusually messy, standing up in spikes.

Sherlock prods at his feelings, curious. Nothing particularly has changed. He still feels the same mix of fascination and irritation at Moran – certainly not anything mushy, or romantic.

But something _has_ changed.

“Don’t overthink it,” Moran says quietly, his voice a little more raspy than usual. “Take advantage of the situation and try to sleep.”

Sherlock runs his eyes back over Moran’s body. His cock is flaccid, now, even though Sherlock has a very _vivid_ image of Moran’ erection, at one point…

“You…” he says, waving at Moran’s groinal area.

“I took care of it myself.”

“Ah,” Sherlock says, feeling a strange floating disappointment.

Moran gives a bark of laughter. “One thing at a time, sweetheart.”

“So there’ll be a next time?” Sherlock asks, vaguely .

“We’ll see. Now _sleep_.”

“Mm,” he says, and closes his eyes.

***

He wakes up with something warm and heavy resting on his hip.

It takes a while before it registers as such, though. At first there’s just generic warmth, comfort, pleasant exhaustion.

Then it solidifies. His hip. A hand.

Moran.

As if he senses Sherlock’s thoughts, Moran pulls away and sits up. Sherlock keeps his eyes shut.

He can’t lock out everything out, though. Not the sound of the shifting sheets, the soft pad of bare feet on the hotel room carpet. Or the feeling of his thighs, sticky and the muscles sore. Or the scents lingering on the sheets…

He scrunches his nose and opens his eyes, sits up.

Moran is standing naked in front of the window, back to Sherlock. Decorating and accentuating the scars – still startling in their stark brutality – are deep reddish scratches, all across Moran’s back.

“What’s the final verdict on the diamond thing?” Moran asks, calmly.

Sherlock blinks, needing a moment to pull him back to the present. “Not Moriarty,” he manages. His voice is still a little hoarse. “There was no plan behind it, no thought.”

“Then we can leave?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Good.” Moran looks over his shoulder. “Cause I think someone’s caught up with us.”

“What?”

All other thoughts and feelings, no matter how new and strange and unsettling, are briefly forgotten as Sherlock rushes over the window. He doesn’t need long before he sees what Moran does, a man lingering in the doorway opposite the hotel, ostensibly looking on his phone but body language, even from here, clearly tense and watchful.

“Get dressed.” Moran abruptly turns away from the window. “We need to leave.”

Sherlock grabs his shirt from yesterday off the floor – another deeply _odd_ reminder – and quickly pulls it on. “How? How did they find us?”

“Dunno, don’t care right now. I’ll look into it later. Probably something to do with the hotel’s database. _Fuck_ ,” he yells, suddenly, a kick against the wall accentuating the expletive.

“It’s just one man,” Sherlock says.

“Yeah, but it’s one man we’ve been trying our best to avoid, working for someone we still don’t know shit about.” He runs a hand through his hair, then grunts, “Fine. Off-radar it is.”

“Meaning?”

“Nothing that can digitally identify us, if at all possible.” He deposits the laptop and the gun into the bag, then swings it over his shoulder. “Back exit.”

Sherlock follows Moran to the second floor, then to the emergency stairs at the back of the hallway. Moran casually opens the window, then hops out, clambering down the metal stairs and dropping down the last few yards.

Sherlock follows him down, but the distance to the ground is longer than he expected and he staggers, air knocked out of him. It’s only Moran’s steadying arm around his chest that keeps him from going down to his knees.

They head down the alley to the street at the back of the hotel. There are a few people milling around, less than at the front of the hotel, none of them immediately pinging his warning signals. But there are two soldiers making their rounds as well, which means stealing a car may be difficult here.

He glances at Moran, who’s frowning at the street, obviously thinking. Sherlock casts his eye over the parked cars, breathes out, looks deeper…

_Commuter commuter shopping spree doctor’s appointment dropping off child –_

“Come on,” he says, striding towards the grey Peugeot parked on the opposite side.

“You better know what you’re doing,” Moran mutters under his breath, eyeing the patrolling soldiers, but he still follows.

“I do.”

They stop at the car and Sherlock reaches confidently for the door, which opens without resistance.

Moran raises his eyebrows at him. “How – Never mind.” He looks over his shoulder, then back at the car. “I’m still driving, though.”

“Fine.”

Sherlock walks around the car and gets in on the passenger’s side. Moran is already underneath the wheel, hotwiring the car in only a few seconds.

“Whereto?” Sherlock asks, looking in the rearview mirror. No one reacting yet, but if his deductions were correct they have less than a minute before the mum this car belongs to will get back.

“Anywhere that’s not here. Anywhere remote.” Moran shifts into gear and pulls onto the road. “We can decide on more meaningful destinations later.”

“So we’re running. Again.”

“Until we know what we’re up against here, yeah.” Moran’s face contorts briefly in anger and he slams his palm onto the wheel. “How the _fuck_ did they find us?”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He just looks, as Moran bites his lip, as he regains his control, as he changes gears and looks over his shoulder at the traffic behind them, tendons in his neck standing out…

Sherlock resolutely tears his eyes away and looks out of the window, at the streets and houses making room for factories and storehouses, and then grass and wheat fields.

The muscles of his thighs are still sore, in a strange, specific way he’s never really felt before. There's a raw spot on the inside of his cheek, where he bit down. And his throat seems to tingle where he’d felt Moran’s teeth – entirely imagined, he checked in the mirror in the windscreen, there are no marks. But he still he feels a tingle.

He clenches his jaw and tries to empty his mind. There are far more important things to focus on right now than stupid simple _sex_. Like the men following them. They should have lost the trail by now; the fact that they found them again means they’ve got resources far beyond what he’d considered possible. Although Berlin already proved that.

 _How_ did they get caught? Where did they leave traces? And, more importantly, how can they avoid it happening again? The thought of running, over and over again, from a faceless nameless enemy…

He frowns and leans his head against the window.

“You all right?” Moran asks, with a quick look at Sherlock.

“Fine,” he mutters. Again, that odd thing of checking in, taking care of him. Like he had –

Sherlock rolls his eyes at himself and forces his mind back on the right path. Their pursuers. That’s who he should be focusing on. Not Moran, and his hands and his eyes and the way he has of focusing on Sherlock like he’s –

Their _pursuers_.

***

“We’re stopping.”

Sherlock startles awake. It’s gone dark – he must have been sleeping at least a few hours, then.

“Sorry?” he rasps, voice hoarse.

“I’m getting too tired to drive safely. Keep an eye out for hotels, will you?”

“Right.” Sherlock hauls himself upright and tries to focus on the outside. It seems to be well into the night, the moon an eerie thin sickle above them and the stars smothered by the smog. There’s nothing much of interest, just landscape, hills, trees, the occasional city nothing more than a grid of lights in the distance.

Sherlock glances at Moran. He seems tense, the line of his shoulder tighter than usual – and when did he start paying that much attention to Moran’s shoulders?

He shakes his head, irritated. Nothing strange. He reads everyone’s body language, automatically, cataloguing habits and quirks as a matter of routine. Moran has his own set of those, and of course Sherlock has a pretty good knowledge of them, after all this time together. Like that habit of his of keeping his hand on the gearstick longer than necessary, steering with just one hand on the middle of the wheel, navigating with ease…

He’s got big hands, Moran. Clean nails, short. Calluses in some places. _Warm_ , his memory adds. _Strong. Certain._

Sherlock presses his lips together, squeezes his eyes shut, tries to dismiss the memories. Yes, fine, Moran’s hands had felt good, great, when they’d been touching him during sex, fabulous, can he _move on now?_

He sighs, opens his eyes again. Looks ahead at the road for a while, straight and grey, nothing of interest, then down, just a little….

Moran shifts gears. The movement makes the muscle in his forearms stand out briefly, the grip of his fingers on the knob firm and –

 _Dammit_.

He shakes his head, forces himself to concentrate. Neon lights in the distance, there. “What about that one?”

Moran slows down, then pulls onto the mostly abandoned parking lot. “Not that many other guests around, apparently.”

“You think it’s safe?”

“About as safe as we can get. But I’m not really up to driving another hour until we hit the next city.”

“Fine, then,” Sherlock says.

Moran opens the door, then looks over his shoulder at Sherlock. “There’s another option, you know.”

“Is there?”

“You can take over for a while.”

Words neutral enough, but there’s an edge of impatience about them. “You’d trust me to pick the route?” Sherlock asks, sarcastically. “Not afraid I’ll drive use straight to the closest police station?”

Moran gives him a look that clearly states how much he believes that threat, then gets out. Sherlock takes a deep breath and follows him.

“At first I thought it was just you being a spoilt little rich boy again,” Moran says as they head to the building. “You know, used to being chauffeured around, thought of taking over and helping not even crossing your pampered little head. But then I remembered…” Moran grins. “Cottage in the Cotswolds.”

Sherlock makes a non-committal sound and tries to keep distance between them. For some reason, he keeps automatically drifting closer to Moran, shoulders almost brushing.

“So why?” Moran asks. “Why don’t you offer to take the wheel for a while?”

“I assumed you wouldn’t let me,” he says.

“I assumed we were past that,” Moran says, calmly.

Sherlock shoots a look at Moran, opens his mouth, then closes it again. “I don't like driving,” he says curtly.

“So you can drive, then?” Moran asks, idly. “Thought it was that, for a while. Didn’t seem any stranger than the fact that you’re still a virgin well into your thirties. Or, er…” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “ _Were_.”

Sherlock looks away.

“Although it might not be bad, giving us a moment to regroup,” Moran continues, ignoring Sherlock’s discomfort. “I don’t like the idea of fleeing blindly. We might just as well be running straight into their arms again.”

“It all depends on how exactly they’re tracking us,” Sherlock says. “If they’re relying on digital traces…”

“That’s what I’m hoping, yeah. From the look of this place, I’d be surprised if they’ve even got Wifi. Now shush.”

They’ve come to the main building. Moran opens the door, holding it politely – if a little mockingly – open for Sherlock, then follows him in.

They go straight to reception, where they’re expertly ignored. The camera in the upper corner is obviously a dummy, and their computer doesn’t have an internet connection. The receptionist – when she finally reacts – simply jots down their names, takes the cash without any surprise, and tells them in bad English to go up to the second floor.

There is no lift.

“Classy,” Sherlock quips as they head down the open hallway to their room.

“As long as it’s got a functioning shower, I’ll be happy. Okay, so, twenty-one… This is us.” He pushes the door open and goes in. Sherlock follows behind.

The room is maybe a quarter of the size the room in Antwerp was, wallpaper peeling at the corners and carpet suspiciously stained. There’s just room for the bed and a small desk, shoved in a corner. It reeks of wet carpet and bleach.

Moran is already sitting cross-legged on the bed, taking out his laptop. Sherlock goes past him and checks out the bathroom. It’s tiny, barely enough room to move, and the shower doesn’t look very promising either, rusty and stained.

He steps back out.

The bed is small too, nowhere near the kingsizes he got used to. He eyes it warily.

How do other people do this? How do they incorporate sex into their daily lives? How do they know when to –

“You can just _ask_ , you know,” Moran says, voice full of mocking amusement.

Sherlock looks up from the stained mattress into Moran’s colourless eyes. “What, _have sex with me please?_ ” he sneers.

“Works for me.” Moran puts the laptop aside and holds out a hand in invitation, and for one second, for one split second Sherlock actually considers taking it.

Then he turns away. “If you think this was anything but a one-time occurrence, you’re fooling yourself.”

“I’m not the one fooling myself, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinks. It’s the first time he’s ever heard Moran call him by his given name, and it’s – odd. That same sense of intimacy going on whenever he hears Moran call Moriarty _Jim_.

“I’m not interested in you,” he says, irritated. “It was just a one-time experiment. Curiosity, which got sated.”

“ _Sated_ isn’t the word I’d use for you,” Moran says lazily.

“It was – pleasant. Interesting. But I don’t see the long-term appeal of it. So can you please stop talking about it?”

Moran keeps watching him for a moment or two. Then he shrugs. “Fine.”

“Good,” Sherlock says, a little taken aback. He’d been expecting more resistance – with what he knows of Moran, he would have jumped on the opportunity to goad Sherlock, prod at what he would perceive as a weak spot.

But instead, he genuinely seems to drop it. He just sits up, scooting back until he’s leaning against the headboard, and takes the laptop back.

Sherlock squints at him for a while, but he doesn’t look from his screen. Strange. Unexpected – again, still.

Damn Moran.

Sherlock goes back to the door and heads out to the landing again, taking a moment to study the environment.

It’s a miserable place Moran chose, a pool that hasn’t seen water for decades, walls crumbling in places, the stink of mould and damp everywhere. Both rooms on either side are unoccupied, but in one on the opposite side of the centre courtyard a couple is fighting. Too far away and in a language he doesn’t know well enough to understand, but it sounds genuine.

He goes back in and pulls the door closed, leaning against it, arms crossed. The damp has gotten into the room as well, and the bed screeches painfully every time Moran as much as breathes out, grating against Sherlock’s already-taut nerves -

“Thought so.”

Sherlock blinks. “What?”

“How they found us.” Moran leans back on his hands. “Someone put a face recognition thing on the both of us, and the hotel in Antwerp was big enough to be hooked into an international network.”

“This one isn’t?”

“I highly doubt it,” Moran says dryly. “But lemme check.”

Sherlock walks over and looks over Moran’s shoulder at the laptop, trying to make sense of it.

Moran navigates the interface with the instinctual ease of someone who’s been doing this for years, but to Sherlock it remains infuriatingly unreadable. He might be able to make more sense of it if he only had a few moments with the system alone, at ease, exploring at his own pace. But all he has to go on so far are glimpses, whenever Moran needs to look up something, too fast and unclear to be able to understand.

“Nope, nothing,” Moran says. “We’re off the grid here, meaning we’re safe. Well, relatively,” he adds, looking a little disturbed.

“Can you trace who’s behind it?”

“I’ve tried. It’s all remote servers and VPN connections, leading in circles. Whoever is behind this, they’re hidden deep.” He glances back at the screen of the laptop. “I can dig further, but… I’m not particularly good at this, it was always Jim who took care of the computer stuff.”

“Can’t you even trace the money? Bank accounts, things like that?”

“No.” Moran frowns. “It’s strange, though. They used our pictures, our aliases, but not our real names.”

“Hm.” Sherlock leans back against the wall. “So it’s probably not Mycroft, then. He’d never use outside contractors like that.”

“Yeah, that’s something at least. But not much.” He puts the laptop aside and falls back onto the bed. “Now what the fuck do we do?”

“I don’t see why we can’t go on with what we started,” Sherlock says.

Moran frowns up at him. “What, the treasure hunt? You really want to go back to Italy?”

“Eventually, yes, but not now. The risks are too high, we can’t go back there unless we have at least an idea what’s going on. But staying in one location is a risk as well, so we need to move around. And while we do that, we may as well do something useful.”

“Such as?” Moran asks, sceptically.

“Looking for traces of Moriarty.”

“Crimes that don’t look like crimes,” Moran says heavily. He closes his eyes and runs a hand over his face, tired. “It’s grasping at straws.”

“Is it really? If he’s alive, he’ll be bored. He’ll need to find some find of entertainment, it’s in his blood.”

Moran frowns. “Do you really think we can afford to spend time on that?”

“Why not? We can do that while staying off the grid, if we’re careful. Unless you’ve got a better alternative.”

“No.”

“Well then?”

Moran nods at the laptop. “Go ahead. Find us a trace.”

Sherlock looks at him for a moment, then takes the laptop and sits down at the splintery desk. He opens up the website of several news agencies, delves into the archives and spends a few minutes cycling through varying keywords, picking out a few likely cases.

But as he goes back to the desktop, the little icon of Moriarty’s software programme twinkles at him seductively, still open and logged-in. Sherlock glances over his shoulder – Moran seems to be resting, or napping, eyes closed and body language loose.

Sherlock turns back to the screen, and after a moment of hesitation opens the programme. It goes straight to what he expects is the main homepage, a glistening network of nodes, connected by long tendrils - a web, like Moran said, a neural network, spreading out, a map of Moriarty’s –

It flashes suddenly bright white, then goes black.

Sherlock stares.

Then there’s laugher.

He whirls to see Moran guffawing on the bed. “Think you’re so _clever_ , do you?” Moran coos between laughs.

Sherlock glares at him. “Did it break down?”

“Nah, it’ll start up in a minute or five.” Moran sits up, stretches, then gets up from the bed. “Right. I’m gonna butter up the receptionist, see if I can’t find out anything on our fellow guests, just in case they followed us here. You have fun with that,” he adds, nodding at the computer.

“How many tries do I have before it self-destructs?”

“No idea,” Moran says, not seeming particularly concerned. “But I wouldn’t waste my time on it. You know how this works.”

“What?”

Moran grins at him. “Everything you’ve thought of, he’s thought of first.” He adds a wink, then leaves Sherlock to deal with his feelings on his own.

***

_Ο Δημήτριος θα θυμηθεί ως αφοσιωμένο σύζυγο και πατέρα. Οι συνάδελφοί του στο υπουργείο –_

A sharp knock on the door pulls Sherlock from his reading. He blinks, then glances at the gun in the bag, outside of easy grabbing distance.

“It’s me,” Moran calls out.

Sherlock gets up and opens the door. Moran steps inside, reaches for his coat and has a rummage around, then pulls out a packet of cigarettes. He eyes the smoke detectors. “Do you think those work?”

“Better not risk it,” Sherlock says.

“Good point.” Moran slips the packet into his front pocket, then grabs his lighter and heads outside.

Sherlock briefly hesitates, then follows him into the open-roofed hallway outside.

Moran is leaning against the wall, lighting his cigarette. Sherlock has seen him light up countless time before, but he never really noticed the details of it. The minute, sure, capable movement of hands and fingers, his lips closing around the paper, the way his eyes go half-lidded and his cheeks hollow out as he sucks in the smoke…

The last cigarette Sherlock saw him smoke was pre-coital.

Moran cracks one eye open, then plucks the cigarette from his mouth and smiles. “Didn’t know you were a smoker.”

“I quit. How did you know?”

“You look hungry.” Moran holds out the cigarette, the tip glowing temptingly.

_\- don’t come complaining when you get lung cancer, John says, real annoyance and worry beneath the quip, and Sherlock drops the cigarette and hands John the packet, there, he says, happy now? See, I can stop whenever I want to -_

He takes the cigarette from Moran and inhales, deeply. It must be his first cigarette in years and _Christ_ , he feels it. Missed it.

“Suppose taking up smoking again pales in comparison to consorting with the enemy, when it comes to bad habits,” Moran says, voice quiet, warm. Intimate, again.

“All a matter of perspective.”

Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock watches Moran light up another cigarette. He leans his head back against the brick wall, looks at the moon shining through the slivers of clouds.

If only John could see him now. Or his brother. Or anyone, really. There’s no one who would approve, no one who would actually understand –

Except, of course, Moriarty.

“Found anything?” Moran asks, as if picking up on Sherlock’s thoughts.

“Not really.” Sherlock takes another drag, frowns. “I identified the most promising lead but it still isn’t particularly… It’s possible, that’s all.”

“Well, we’ve got to start somewhere,” Moran says philosophically. “Where are we off to?”

“Greece.”

“That’s a long ride.” Moran taps the ash off his cigarette. “Think it’s worth the risk to take a plane?”

“I wouldn’t. Not yet, anyway. Not until we know who’s behind it.” He flicks his cigarette butt away, then glances at Moran. “You’ve got a cache somewhere between here and Athens? Somewhere safe to regroup, maybe find some other clues?”

“A couple, yeah. Think Bosnia might be the best, if we want to take the quickest route. And if I can hook up to the network proper I can have twice the information I have access to now.”

Sherlock looks at him.

“No,” Moran says, smiling. “I’m not telling you how it works.”

“It could help. I could find things easier, quicker than you could.”

“Probably, yeah.” Moran drops what remains of his cigarette and grinds it out beneath his sole. “But that’s a line I’m not crossing. Coming back in?”

“Give me a moment.”

“Don’t run off,” Moran says, jokingly, then turns and goes back into the room.

Sherlock crosses his arms across his chest, looks up at the evening sky. Smoking used to help him calm down, but now it seems to have the opposite effect. Not that he’s more nervous, really, just more – _aware_. Of the cool air on the skin of his forearms and face, of the faint chirrup of insects somewhere near, of the sounds of Moran moving around the room behind him, clothes rustling, and the couple across the courtyard who have stopped fighting and judging by the loud groans and moans have progressed to –

Sherlock abruptly turns and goes back in.

The laptop is open on the desk. Sherlock sits down in front of it and scrolls to the news article that’s open on it – the murder in Athens, exactly the one he’d had his eye on. So Moran saw it too.

 _Police baffled_ , it says, in big shouty letters.

“To be honest, police are easily baffled,” Sherlock says in the general generation of the bathroom. “Could just be an exaggeration.”

“Maybe, yeah,” Moran’s voice comes from behind the door, muffled. “But it might still be worth checking out.” The toilet flushes, the tap runs briefly, and then he comes back out again. “I agree, it seems like our best lead. A piss-poor one, but usable at the very least.”

“Another fool’s errand.” Sherlock opens one of the tabs and casts his eye over the profile of the investigating officer. “Might be hopeless.”

“But, like you said…” Moran says as he comes over. “Do we have a better alternative?”

“Italy might be safe again.”

“It isn’t.” Moran puts his hand on the back of Sherlock’s chair and leans briefly over him, opening up a page of Moriarty’s programme. It shows six screens, CCTV, of a garden and a house and – ah, the manor in Italy.

“Seems abandoned, right?” Moran says softly. “But wait for it…”

Sherlock fixes his eyes on the screen. Moran is almost close enough to touch – but, significantly, pointedly, not actually touching. It’s odd because he fully expected Moran to use this – this _thing_ to taunt Sherlock even more, to tempt him into a second time, but instead he seems almost… respectful?

Not that it helps. The not-touching only seems to emphasise it more, whatever _it_ may be. Sherlock can barely think through the haze of Moran’s nearness, his scent of sweat and soap and the soft sound of his breath and the warmth of his arm so close to Sherlock’s back –

“There,” Moran says.

On the bottom screen, two men come striding into view.

“It’s burned,” Moran says quietly. He closes down the page and moves out of Sherlock's personal space.

Sherlock shakes off the imbalanced feeling. “Is there anything of importance to be found there?”

“Doubt it. Everything important is in code, and if even you can’t break that…” He stands up and stretches, his shirt riding up a little.

Sherlock stares.

“Christ, it’s hot,” Moran mumbles, dropping his arms.

“I’m going to freshen up,” Sherlock says, then quickly gets up and heads - _flees_ into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

He splashes cold water on his face, then looks at the mirror. Cheeks flushed, but that could just be the heat. Pupils enlarged, and that can’t be explained away.

 _You look hungry_.

He runs his hands over his face, tips his head back. It’s like the thrill of a chase, the yearning for a shot, the reassurance of John’s company but different, totally different, spread out over his skin and nerves and into his bones. Can’t be ignored, can’t be compartmentalised, can’t be reasoned away.

He needs to find a way to get rid of it or he’ll go mad, and he needs his wits about him now more than ever. He can’t afford distraction, he needs to concentrate, to _think_ , and yet all he can think of now is – 

He needs to get rid of it.

He opens the door, leans in the doorway. Watches.

Moran is lying on top of the sheets, barechested, arms behind his head. Sherlock can see the muscle in them, the bulge of the deltoid, the dip between triceps and biceps.

Half dreading it, he lets his eyes go down. Chest and flat stomach, the bone of his hip, the scarring disappearing down the waistband of his boxers and appearing at the top of his thigh, leg bent, foot flat on the mattress. He looks like a predator after feeding, scarred and leonine. Relaxed. Comfortable.

Moran turns his head, lazily, and returns Sherlock’s stare without blinking. The faint mocking smile that seems permanently glued to Moran’s face is, for once, missing. He just looks patient, serious. Waiting.

Sherlock curls his fingers around the doorframe, hard.

Then he pulls open his shirt and stalks to Moran’s bed.

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Athens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for a lot more explicit sex, and moral relativism.

“Don’t – don’t stop, don’t _nff –_ ”

Sebastian presses his mouth against Sherlock’s, muffling his desperate noises as Sebastian’s hand keeps up the good work on Sherlock’s cock.

Surprisingly, Sherlock is a rather loud fuck. Once he got past the initial awkwardness, the newness, he seemed to have found his footing fairly quickly. In fact, Sherlock almost seems to revel in it.

And Christ, it’s fun to finally see Sherlock come apart a little. Most of his icy self-control goes straight through the window, once he’s reached a certain amount of sexual excitement.

He begs, too. Of course afterwards he categorically denies it, but whenever it happens, it goes straight to Sebastian’s cock, the sadist-dom lurking deep inside of him tasting blood on the air. He tends to suppress those kind of impulses, though.

One thing at the time.

Sherlock groans, then bites down hard as he comes, enough to hurt, to even break skin. Sebastian pulls away, wipes his hand clean on his shirt, then runs his thumb over the small bleeding tear on his bottom lip. Savage little bastard.

Sherlock’s legs wobble. Sebastian easily catches him around the waist, then twists him around and basically drops him so he ends up splayed out on bed.

For a while, he just lies there, panting, eyes closed.

Then he squints at Moran, expression his typical mixture between imperious and childishly miffed. “Lie down, I’m going to get a crick in my neck like this.”

It’s easier to just not argue, sometimes. Besides, he’s feeling his legs as well.

So he drops down next to Sherlock, arms behind his head. He closes his eyes, breathes in deep, floating on the mix of smugness, arousal and a rather significant amount of physical exhaustion. He’s hard enough that the buttons of his jeans are becoming uncomfortable, but he’s hardly going to let a touch of pain bother him now.

Three years is a long time to go without sex. And besides, Jim taught him the virtue of patience a long time ago.

After a while, the mattress shifts, Sherlock changing position. Leaving? No, the dent stays. Closer, though, than before.

He cracks one eye open.

Sherlock is leaning up on his elbow, studying Sebastian with a calm, detached, intense scrutiny that reminds him painfully of Jim.

“What?”

“Do you mind if I…” Sherlock says, hand reaching down towards Sebastian’s crotch.

He shrugs. “Sure.”

Sherlock cups Sebastian’s cock through his jeans and Sebastian closes his eyes again, smiling.

He hasn’t done this very often, so far. The first few times Sherlock had been mostly a passive recipient, too overwhelmed to do much himself. And after that, any attempts at reciprocation had been sloppy and clumsy - only to be expected, of course, from someone whose entire sexual experience consists of not even half a dozen quick wanks. So Sebastian had batted away Sherlock’s touches in irritation, and that had been the end of that.

Which makes this the first time he’s actually initiated anything outside the throes of his own pleasure.

“Don’t you…” Sherlock starts.

Sebastian looks at Sherlock’s curious face. “Don’t I what?” he asks lazily.

“I thought you were unaffected, but…” He gestures at Sebastian’s hard-on.

Sebastian laughs. “Almost anyone would be _affected_ by your little show there.”

“Then why aren’t you…?”

“Gagging for it?” Sebastian suggests cheerfully. “Because I don’t have some twenty-odd years of pent-up sexual frustration under my belt.”

“Just three.”

Sebastian gives Sherlock a sharp look. Sherlock doesn’t reply, eyes back on Sebastian’s crotch. Slowly and deliberately, he unbuttons Sebastian’s jeans. Then he seem to hesitate.

“Take your time,” Sebastian says, only half mocking.

Sherlock glares at him, then tries to push his jeans out of the way. Sebastian helpfully lifts his hips, and Sherlock pulls Sebastian’s jeans and pants down his legs, giving him full access. Sebastian grabs hold of the sheets, eyes closed, waiting.

Nothing happens.

He glances down. Sherlock is lying down, head roughly level with Sebastian’s crotch, expression one of cool study. Taking his time, just like Sebastian said.

“Some men might find this disturbing,” Sebastian says, fighting his amusement.

“Why would I be interested in what normal men think?”

“Thanks.”

“Welcome.”

Sebastian gives him a look. Weird though it is, there’s also something rather hot about the intensity in Sherlock’s eyes as he studies Sebastian’s cock.

It’s vastly different than the last few times. There Sherlock had been helpless, desperate, hurried and eager. Now he’s more… focused, more _there_. More confident too, surprisingly. Of course, Sherlock is as much a quick learner as Jim is, so…

Sebastian bites the inside of his cheek.

Sherlock tilts his head. He raises his hand, reaches out, and for a moment Sebastian can almost feel the air separating his cock from Sherlock’s fingertips.

But then Sherlock pulls his hand back. He tilts his head again, eyes still on Sebastian’s cock.

“Not that I’m not flattered,” Sebastian says, “but is it really that interesting?”

“Rather.” Sherlock squints a little. “The only penises I’ve been this close to are corpses’.”

Sebastian grins. “Again: you’re fucking lucky I’m not normal.”

Sherlock shoots him a quick look, a unusually warm kind of amusement on his face. Then he looks back down, and carefully wraps his fingers around Sebastian’s cock.

Sebastian breathes in slowly through his nose.

“I suppose there’s too much drag without lubrication of some sort?”

“Er – yeah, generally speaking. It’s, er, easier.”

“Hm.”

Sherlock lets go and leans over him to get the bottle of lube Sebastian’s started to keep on the bedside table – just for handjob purposes, nothing more involved here yet. He squeezes some out on his fingers, then raises them to his face, sniffing delicately.

Sebastian shakes his head. “You’re really going for the whole sensory experience, aren’t you?”

“It’s my first real opportunity, I intend to get as much info out of this as I possibly can.”

“So you’re just in it for the scientific information, are you?” Sebastian asks, smiling.

Sherlock sends him a dark look and in one movement grabs Sebastian’s cock, hard. Sebastian squeezes his eyes shut and curses, hand twisting on the sheets, cause _damn_.

When he opens his eyes again, Sherlock is looking very… intrigued, maybe. Interested. The same face he pulls when he’s spotted a promising clue.

And all of a sudden Sebastian realises that if Sherlock really is a lot like Jim the chances of him having a sadistic streak are pretty fucking high, and that’s… an interesting thought. His cock twitches in Sherlock’s fist.

Then Sherlock loosens his grip and slowly starts jacking his hand up and down. There isn’t much clumsiness about him now, funnily enough.

“Picked that up from porn, then, did you?” Sebastian asks. His voice is getting a little breathy around the edges.

“Partly.” Sherlock frowns, briefly, then twists his hand on the upstroke. “And partly from observing others.”

Sebastian snorts. “Voyeur.”

“I didn’t get any sexual pleasure from it myself, though. Doesn’t that sort of defeat the purpose of voyeurism?”

“Depends on which – _ouch_.”

Sherlock looks up. “Too tight?”

“Bit,” Sebastian says, panting.

“I thought you were a masochist?”

“Yeah, well, it’s – it’s a thing. Balance. Difficult to _ngh_ , yes, like that.”

“Difficult to _ngh_ , “ Sherlock echoes, smug bastard. He pulls his hand back and turns it, studying his fingers with scientific interest.

Sebastian narrows his eyes. “If you expect me to just lie back and be experimented on without a word in protest you’re – ”

“Right.” Sherlock gives him a quick look. “You like that sort of thing.”

Sebastian opens his mouth, closes it again. “How did you know that?”

“I deduced it.” He grabs Sebastian’s cock again but doesn’t move, just holds it. “Am I wrong?”

“No-o. Doesn’t mean I’m willing to do it with you, though,” Sebastian adds.

“We’ll see.” And Sherlock leans down and closes his lips over the head of Sebastian’s cock.

Nevermind that he’s new to this, that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, that he’s likely to accidentally bite down in surprise if Sebastian would thrust up; it’s still someone’s fucking mouth on his cock. And it has been much, much too long since his last blowjob.

He breathes in sharply through his nose. He can see Sherlock briefly looking up at him, and then he closes his eyes and starts moving.

It’s obvious he’s experimenting, first just bobbing up and down, then actually sucking, then using the tip of his tongue… It’s a strange experience. Sometimes he’s fucking spot-on and it’s all Sebastian can do to keep from pulling him down and fucking his mouth, and then suddenly it’s too hard, too little, too much, enough to take the edge off again. It’s obviously not on purpose – Sherlock’s face goes frustrated each time Sebastian pulls away or winces in discomfort – but despite the intentions, it has approximately the same effect as a long, deliberately drawn-out tease.

Which, unfortunately, is something he’s been conditioned to.

Sherlock sucks hard on the head of Sebastian’s cock and Sebastian groans. Sherlock looks up at him again, what little Sebastian can see of his face rather calculating, then slides his lips down, taking him deeper than before.

And then he chokes.

He immediately pulls back, retching and coughing, and despite the fact that Sebastian’s basically dying with sexual frustration at this point, he can’t help but laugh.

“That – ” Sherlock gasps, in between coughs, “that looked a lot easier when you did.”

“Don’t go deepthroating someone unless you know what you’re doing,” Sebastian says, still grinning.

Sherlock sends him a dirty look, and Sebastian’s insides give a little twist again – yep, that’s definitely a sadist-in-waiting right there.

Sherlock bends back down and takes Sebastian’s cock in his mouth. The experimenting is over; this time he just goes up and down, pausing only occasionally for a hard suck at the exposed head, and after what seems like hours of hit-and-miss this is fucking _perfect_.

His orgasm approaching, he flails, grabs hold of Sherlock curls. Sherlock growls, deep in his throat – sending the vibrations down Sebastian’s on-the-brink cock – and Sebastian quickly lets go, throwing his arms back behind his head, grasping the headboard. As much fun as annoying Sherlock can be, this isn’t the – the moment -

He throws his head back and comes with a grunt, then drops his hands back to the mattress, panting heavily.

Sherlock is sitting up, a strange expression on his face and his lips pursed – ah, yes, of course. Sebastian leans up on his elbow, plucks a handful of tissues from the box next to the bed, and hands them to Sherlock. Sherlock spits, then licks his lips, still with that same considering expression. He gets off the bed, pulls up his trousers and does his belt back up, still a little flushed but otherwise looking rather composed.

For someone as new to all this as he is, he’s certainly found a certain amount of phlegmatic calm pretty damn quickly.

Sherlock catches him looking and raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Just wondering what a difference a few good fucks can make.”

Sherlock snorts.

“So,” Sebastian asks. “How was your first blowjob?”

Sherlock rubs the joint of his jaw. “A learning experience”, he says, thoughtfully.

Sebastian laughs, then swings his legs around and sits up. “Come on,” he says. “Work to do.”

***

So far, Greece has been a disappointment. The case itself, a murder that seemed clear and cut apart from one small detail involving a suspiciously unstained notebook and a missing pen, has been closed for a week by the time they arrived, and no one is particularly interested in reopening it just to satisfy the curiosity of some foreigners.

The files they managed to hack so far have been anything but helpful; even at first glance they’d seen the investigation had been remarkably superficial, even by lazy-coppers standards. Which leaves them no other option than investigate themselves, interrogate the witnesses and, especially, study the evidence.

They’re lucky the system works so slowly; if not, the victim’s files and personal belongings had already been either archived or handed over to whichever next of kin that cared enough. As it is, all that potentially interesting evidence is waiting for them like a sitting duck.

Apart, of course, from the fact that it’s locked inside a secure government building.

“There’s one again,” Sherlock says suddenly.

“What?” Sebastian looks up and follows Sherlock’s gaze to a camera above the door of the supermarket they’re passing.

“You’re _certain_ we’re safe?” Sherlock asks, eyeing the camera.

“Relatively. No need to be obvious about it, though,” he adds, and Sherlock turns his head, no longer looking straight into the lens.

“How long?”

“Excuse me?”

“How long between the actual recording and the deletion,” Sherlock says impatiently.

“Depends. Anything from a few minutes up to an hour or two, I think. It’s an automatic process, but it depends on how easily the software can access the relevant databases.” Sebastian shrugs. “In London it’s a matter of seconds.”

Sherlock nods, slowly. “That does explain a few things.”

“Such as?”

“Why Mycroft never had anything to pin on Moriarty.”

“Hm. Well, I suppose.”

Sherlock frowns at him. “What?”

“No, it’s just… Actually, I’m fairly sure Mycroft did have things on Jim. But pulling Jim from the streets without knowing first exactly what he’s up to, well, that could have grave consequences, couldn’t it?”

“But he did pull Moriarty from the streets, eventually.”

“Only because Jim didn’t leave him any choice.” He glances at Sherlock. “The infamous master key. Still surprised the Iceman fell for that.”

“So what did Mycroft do before that?”

“Try to get information from the streets, lay traps. Send in undercover agents, sometimes. That was always fun.”

For a brief moment, Sherlock looks unnerved. Reminded exactly who it is he’s been gleefully shagging for the last two weeks, perhaps.

But he seems to shake it off relatively quickly. “Mycroft has really known about Moriarty that long?”

“Before you did? Yes, of course. I mean, you catch the rumours pretty soon, once you get to a certain level of London’s underground. Not sure how quickly he realised that they were real, though.”

“And he stayed quiet about it.”

“Protecting his baby brother.”

“Look how that turned out,” Sherlock says, with dark humour. Sebastian smirks.

It’s odd, but at times it almost feels like he’s starting to _like_ Sherlock.

There are another two cameras on either side of the street when they pass the corner, already turned their way. Sebastian eyes them warily. Despite all his reassurances, it’s still entirely possible all these images are going straight to the Iceman’s desk. Or to whoever else it is who’s put a price on their heads.

It doesn’t make _sense_. He can find anything on that laptop, with Jim’s software. Yes, it was Jim who did the main work, but often enough he asked Sebastian to do some other research, when he was too busy with other things, or when he simply wasn’t feeling like it. Often he had to look up things a lot more complicated than just finding out who’s behind a kill order. This should be a fucking walk in the park.

Except, of course, the software is three years out of date.

He clenches his jaw. He has to keep going, focus on the now, on the next step to take ‘cause if he forgets that, if he starts thinking about the whole damn complicated picture…

He isn’t Jim.

“We’re here,” Sherlock says suddenly, pulling him from his gloomy thoughts.

Sebastian shakes off the worry and gives Sherlock a critical look. He’s suffering in the heat, but the suit is doing a nice job of covering that up, as long as you ignore the faint stink of sweat around him.

Sherlock tightens the knot on his tie, pulling a face. “The sooner I’m out of this, the better.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Sebastian says, adding a wink. Sherlock rolls his eyes and strides into the office building, and Sebastian falls into step behind him.

Sherlock heads straight for the elevator, confident and sure. Sebastian digs out his phone and pretends to be on a call, following Sherlock at a slightly more sedate pace. The receptionists barely look at them.

They neatly step into the elevator together, and it closes up before anyone else can get in. Sherlock presses a button, then leans back against the mirror.

“Right,” Moran says. “How do we get inside? Fire alarm?”

“Crude,” Sherlock says, casting his eye around the lift. “But it’ll do. We need to get in before the doors close, though.”

“No problem. We can hide in the supply closet or something. Or bathrooms.”

“Hm,” Sherlock says, his expression rather distant.

Sebastian rolls his eyes. The lift pings, and he strides out - then falters.

The door ahead of them is closed, a card reader blinking red at them.

“Shit,” he mutters.

“No problem. Give me a moment…” Sherlock walks up to the door, then knocks sharply at the glass. A moment later a woman hurries up, beeping the door open and letting them in.

“Miss Melas,” Sherlock says pleasantly. “ _Ephgharisto_.”

“You’ve got the…”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock says impatiently. He reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out a slip of paper, then hands it to the woman, who practically snatches it from his hands. “Your office?”

She heads off, Sherlock following behind her. A few people pass them, but none of them gives them a second look – they are, after all, accompanied by someone familiar, which means they must be here legitimately.

Idiots.

“When you see your opportunity,” Sherlock whispers.

Sebastian nods. One corridor later he spots a fire alarm. One quick look back – no one around – and he smashes it.

The alarm starts blaring. The woman jumps in surprise. “Off you go then,” Sherlock says cheerfully. “And your office?”

She points at a door, then rushes off. They manage to slip in just before a few others head down the corridor towards the lift.

“Eighteen floors by stairs,” Sebastian says, amused. “That’s gonna sting.”

“Some exercise will do them good.” Sherlock absently looks out of the window. “How long do we give them?”

“Couple more minutes until the hallway’s  clear. They’re likely to think it’s just a drill, no one’s going to rush.”

“Hm.”

“So, just as a matter of curiosity…” Sebastian leans his hip against the desk. “What was it you bribed that woman with?”

“Hm? Oh, boring. Affair.”

Sebastian sits down on the desk and takes the picture propped up just behind the monitor, featuring the blackmail victim and her presumable-husband, smiling and looking happy. “Human nature, eh?”

“Ultimately reliable.”

Sebastian puts the picture back and leans back on his hands. “Didn’t think blackmail would be your thing. Bit  too much on the criminal side to be comfortable with, no?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock says absently. “You think this is the first time I’ve blackmailed people into cooperating?”

“Really?” Sebastian asks, surprised. “Thought that would be a bit too… ruthless for you.”

Sherlock shrugs, one-shouldered. “They have it coming. People with clean consciences can’t be blackmailed, can they?”

“Hah.” He crosses his arms. “So you did your prep, then, before we came here?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock turns away from the window to face Sebastian. “What do you think I do on that laptop all day, just read newspapers?”

“And trying to hack Jim’s programme.”

Sherlock gives a small nod. “ _And_ actually useful things. Luckily. What would you have done without me?”

“Probably the same as you did, just a bit slower. Or dismantle the electronic lock.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

“It was a fairly simple one.” Sebastian shrugs, then slides off the desk. “And I was sorta trained for it. Are you coming?”

Sherlock follows him to the abandoned hallway outside. “By Moriarty?”

“No, before.”

“You were – what, bomb disposal? MI-5? Six?”

Sebastian smiles, not replying. Sherlock makes an offended noise, then pushes past Sebastian and opens the door to the office in question.

Most of the stuff is still in boxes –haven’t cleaned it up yet? That’s lazy, even by bureaucrat’s standards.

Sherlock opens the top box. “We have about twenty minutes, give or take, and I want to get out before everyone’s back in, mingle in with the confusion.”

“So, what are we looking for? Or is this another _I’ll-know-it-when-I-see-it_ situation?”

“The latter.”

Sebastian sighs, then opens a box as well. “Yessir.”

Sherlock smirks. “Once a military man, always a military man, I see.”

“Fuck you.”

“And that’s presumably why you were discharged.”

“Ain’t saying nothing.” He takes out a folder and idly flicks it open. It doesn’t look like much, simply some kind of architectural file, something to do with health and safety, with a whole lot of regulations jotted down in the margins. He puts it down and has a look at the next one. “No hints?”

“Something sensitive,” Sherlock says, flipping through his own file. “Something worth killing for.”

“That doesn’t exactly narrow it down, does it?” Sebastian says critically. “I’ve known people to kill for a box of Nesquik.” 

“Not that kind of murder,” Sherlock says. “The official kind. The kind a government would sanction a felony for.”

“Again, doesn’t really narrow it – hold on.”

Sherlock looks up. “What?”

“The spooks have been on this.”

 “How do you know?”

“Fingerprint powder.” Sebastian holds up his hand, showing of the faint traces of black. “But they didn’t confiscate it officially, there was no report anywhere.”

“Could’ve been the police.”

“Maybe. But…” He raises the page. “See, those marks at the side of the page? That’s chemical analysis, that is. Far beyond normal police work.”

“It’s on all of them? Or just that one?”

Sebastian quickly rifles through the other files. “Seems to be the majority of the papers here.”

Sherlock makes a thoughtful noise. “So they examined everything and then put it back so no one would notice…”

“Meaning it’s not official.”

“Someone wants to keep this hushed up.”

They look at each other.

“You need to see anything else?” Sebastian asks.

“No,” Sherlock says, with a quick look at the boxes. “If this has already been searched… If there is anything left, I’m not going to find it in just fifteen minutes.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.” He yanks off his tie. “Let’s go.”

***

Maybe it’s the thought of spies being involved in this, but all the way back to the hotel, the back of Sebastian’s neck is prickling.

It’s strange. He’s never been actively tracked before. Occasionally, yes, people following him from crime scene or a meeting, but that was only a one time thing. His entire work is based on the fact that he’s invisible, that his face is unknown. The idea that people can track him down even after he’s successfully evaded them, that he can’t escape…

It’s worrying.

Although for now it seems to be mainly good old paranoia, ‘cause when he checks the hair-thin thread he tied between the inside doorknob and the chest of drawers next to it, it’s still intact.

“Were you a spy?”

Sebastian blinks and looks up. “Sorry?”

“Were you a secret agent,” Sherlock repeats impatiently. “At some point in your career. Military intelligence?”

“No.” He pushes the door open, breaking the thread, and goes in, Sherlock on his heels. “Was offered the opportunity, but I said no.”

“Why?” Sherlock asks, with a certain measure of sarcasm. “I would think you’d jump on the chance to have an official excuse to kill and swindle people.”

“Because the thought of dying for my queen of country seemed laughable,” Sebastian says curtly.

“And so you joined the army?” Sherlock points out.

“Yeah, fine, right.” He shrugs, a little awkwardly. “I didn’t join MI-6 because it was what was expected of me.”

Sherlock frowns, puzzled. “Spying isn’t exactly the sort of career parents want their children to pursue, is it? How can intelligence agent be an _expected job_?”

“By being born into the right class and having lots of connections. Did you noticed anyone following us outside?”

“What? No.” Sherlock frowns, his face taking on that distant expression Sebastian has learned to recognise as his _mind-palace face_. “No. Why, did you?”

“No, not really. But it feels like – well, like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Maybe you’re becoming paranoid,” Sherlock says, smirking, as he drops into a chair.

“What do you mean, _becoming_?” Sebastian throws him a smile. “You think you survive long in a position like mine if you don’t explicitly distrust everyone?” He sits down on the bed. “Now. Still think it’s murder?”

“Unless the original notebook suddenly magically appears again, yes, I do.”

Sebastian shakes his head. He’s already forgotten most of Sherlock’s long, complicated explanation why the notebook found with the body was not the original one – something to do with smoke stains and an upwards slant on the L’s – but he’s had enough experience with Jim to know that he’s quite likely right.

“Right,” Sebastian says. “So he’s a mid-ranking civil servant, he got into contact with some sensitive information, jotted it down on paper, then got murdered for it?”

“Yep.”

“So his heart attack…”

“Lots of things can cause heart attacks,” Sherlock says. “What I really need are the toxicology reports.”

“I’ll have another try,” Sebastian says, pulling the laptop towards him.

All his attempts at hacking the coroner’s report have failed, so far.  The Greek police’s software is pretty outdated compared to what he’s used to, and their record-keeping is sloppy at best. Sherlock’s impatient hovering didn’t help either.

Nor does it help this time; Christ, one of these days he’s just going to end up decking Sherlock in the face.

“You read Greek?” Sherlock asks as he squints at the webpage Sebastian just opened.

“Yeah. Well, ancient Greek, strictly speaking, but the alphabet is the same and I know enough of modern Greek vocabulary to make sense of it. Hang on, there we go…” He opens the database, and this time the files do open. “But – hang on, that’s odd.”

“What?”

“There’s a sort of – serial number for each file. Metadata. The other files all add up, but this one seems to skip a number.”

“So there was another version?”

“Possibly. Let me see if I can recover it…”

He frowns at the computer, struggling with the coding. Most of his work is based on what he remembers Jim doing, at this point. Computers have never been his strong suit.

Sherlock, of course, _is_ rather good at all this, and he’s been making nonstop demands to get his hands on the software. And, in all truth, there isn’t that much reason not to. It would make things faster – and they don’t have time on their side, right now – and Sherlock has pretty much proven that he’s as involved in this search as Sebastian is.

Still, the idea of letting Sherlock access all that information, never meant for anyone but Sebastian and Jim… It’s unthinkable.

“There.” Sebastian hands the laptop over, the two tox reports open next to each other.

“There’s not that much of a change,” Sherlock says, frowning. “Just the concentrations… No idea what it means.”

“Yet.”

”And nobody noticed that?” Sherlock asks, sounding a little indignant. “The officers, the morgue attendants… You can’t just doctor a file like that without anyone noticing.”

“They’re idiots,” Sebastian says, with wry amusement. “Or paid to look the other way, alternatively.”

Sherlock frowns, taking in the new information. “If it is Moriarty behind this… Would he be as crude as that? Buying off people? Doesn’t sound like him.”

“Maybe. Entirely possible he didn’t do it himself, though. The paying-off, I mean. That some clever little morgue assistant went to their boss and the boss knew enough to shut down said little assistant as soon as possible. Without Jim needing to directly interfere – that’s skill, too.”

”Is it?” Sherlock says, with an expression of distaste. 

Sebastian raises his eyebrow. “You blackmailed a woman into giving us access to confidential files.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Using information against someone is vastly different than – than _threats_.”

“Blackmail is just as much a threat. You realise how much damage unearthing a secret can do to a person?”

Sherlock stubbornly shakes his head. “They brought that on themselves. Threatening innocents is radically different.”

“Yeah, sure, if you want to believe that,” Sebastian sneers.

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, lips thin. Then he looks down at his laptop, pointedly ignoring Sebastian. Angry.

Sebastian huffs and lies down on the bed, eyes closed. You’d think Sherlock would have gotten used to it all by now, and yet, every now and then, he still has these little outbursts of… _propriety_. Like he’s desperately clinging to the kind of person who he thinks he should be.

Or who his friends want him to be.

“Are you asleep?”

“No.” He cracks one eye open. Sherlock has put aside the laptop, eyes on Sebastian again. “What do you want?”

“Do you feel like…”

“Sex?”

“Yes.”

So much for his attack of decency, then.

Sebastian gives him a long look. The sun hasn’t been kind to him, his face reddened and the skin on his nose and forehead starting to peel. He still stinks of sweat, and his hair is a mess. And he’s posturing again, leaning back in the chair with his legs stretched out in front of him like Sebastian’s answer doesn’t particularly interest him, as if outrightly asking for this doesn’t still scare the shit out of him in some deep, suppressed way.  Although as the silence stretches on, the carefree arrogant front is starting to crack, Sherlock’s insecurity shining through.

All in all it doesn’t paint a particularly attractive picture. Definitely not the kind of thing he would usually go for. And yet… And yet, he has absolutely no problem holding out his hand in invitation and saying _come on, then_.

Sherlock’s expression melts into pure relief for a few precious seconds, and then it’s all wiped away as hunger takes over and he stands up, takes Sebastian’s hand, looking down at him –

And any thoughts of unattractiveness are quickly forgotten.

***

The evening sun slants in through the window, illuminating the rumpled sheets, giving Sherlock's skin a golden tinge, and threatening to set fire to the the piles and piles of paperwork currently spread out on the floor.

Police reports, stolen from the police office a few days ago - it had been laughably easy, the detective in charge not even checking their credentials before allowing them full unsupervised access to all their files. Then there are the toxicology reports, several versions of them, highlighted and full of annotations; Sherlock actually made him go out and buy markers for that. And then, of course, the masses of handscribbled notes. For all that he does his thinking work in his  _mind palace_ , quote unquote, apparently Mr Holmes likes having the visual reference of hardcopies.

Sebastian tilts his head. It’s a sight, Sherlock cross-legged, nude, in the middle of the circle of files. Like some kind of administrative warlock, trying to summon the god of paperwork. He’s muttering too, under his breath.

Jim did this as well. Not _quite_ the same – patterns, rather than circles, and walls as his canvas rather than floors, but the principle is identical.

It’s far from the first time he’s seen striking similarities between Jim and Sherlock, but just lately they seem to be piling up. Maybe it’s him, maybe his perception is just changing. Or maybe it’s Sherlock, despite clinging to his precious morals, maybe he is finally starting to let go of -

“Found it!”

Sebastian’s heart skips a beat. “A trace? It’s Jim?”

“No. Well, possibly. What I meant was that I solved the case.” Sherlock taps the page. “The murderer added succinylcholine to the wine and – ”

“Dumb it down for me, will you?” Sebastian interrupts. “My knowledge of chemistry is abysmal.”

Sherlock stares at him. Then he gives a put upon sigh. “Compound one plus compound two makes poison,” he says, exaggeratedly slowly, “but once victim is dead, compound one goes _poof_.”

“It evaporates?”

“Something like it,” Sherlock says, dropping the patronising tone. “It devolves into separate compounds, innocent enough in themselves.”

“But they still removed it from the file, right?”

“Yes. The compounds are harmless but relatively rare. Anyone who looked into it a bit further would have been able to discover this .” He gives Sebastian a wry mile. “Case in point.”

“Hence the doctored file.” Sebastian leans back in his chair. “Clever.”

“But clever enough? It didn’t take me that long to solve it.”

“Maybe that’s the intention,” Sebastian says slowly.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “You mean Moriarty foresaw you’d contact me, use me as advisor, get interrupted in our search and then proceed to look for other traces _and then_ come out on this specific case, which he made just easy enough to solve?”

“This is James Moriarty we’re talking about,” Sebastian says with a faint smile. “He’s done more outrageous things.”

“It seems far-fetched.”

“Maybe.”

But it would mean he’d approve of him bringing in Sherlock. Or at the very least, that he considered the possibility, calculated it in. That’s... oddly reassuring.

Or maybe it’s wishful thinking.

“Let me have a look at your database,” Sherlock says.

“Nope.”

“Then look yourself, if you must,” Sherlock says, irritated. “But look. Has this particular combination been used before? If yes, it’s not going to be him.”

“He does like to be original. Give me your notes.”

Sherlock hands them over. It takes Sebastian a minute before he can decipher Sherlock’s cramped, spidery handwriting, and another few before he can find the right search functions and narrow down the details enough, but then he does find something.

Not even in the official database. In his _personal notes_.

“It’s not him,” Sebastian says, mouth dry.

“What? Are you sure?”

He stares at the little virtual post-its, stuck to several case files. OBVIOUS, one says. CLUMSY. And then another, longer note, a list with all the potential things to go wrong.

“This isn’t the first murder that used this particular modus operandi. Apparently he…” Sebastian clears his throat, then closes the laptop’s lid. “He didn’t approve. It’s not him, Sherlock. It can’t be.”

For a moment Sherlock looks like he wants to argue. Then he sighs and sits down on the bed. “Then we’re back to where we started.”

“’Fraid so.”

Sebastian rubs his eyes, then closes down Jim’s database and opens up the CCTV footage of Aragno.

A little over two weeks now since they left the house, but there are still about half a dozen armed men standing guard all over the place. If only they could get back there, continue the search the way it was intended… Maybe he should consider that instead of this nonsense. Maybe, if they act quickly, kill the agents there –

Except Sherlock doesn’t approve of killing.

“What if we let one of our pursuers find us,” Sebastian says, thinking out loud. “We capture them, see if we can get any information out of them, and – ”

“You mean, torture them,” Sherlock says, with a painfully clear overtone of disapproval. 

“Don’t act like you’ve never tortured anyone before,” Sebastian says, too irritated to try for subtlety.

“Not that often,” Sherlock says, after a moment. “And you know as well as I do that information got from torture is unreliable at best.”

“Don’t share your brother’s opinion, then?” Sebastian says sarcastically.

“Sorry?”

He looks up. Sherlock looks genuinely surprised, confused, like he really doesn’t know what Sebastian is talking about.

“Baskerville,” Sebastian says, and Sherlock’s frown deepens, confusion growing.

“The experiments there? What has that go to do with – ”

“Ah,” Sebastian says, and he can hear his voice go hard and cold, “so you haven’t visited the basement level.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “What did they…”

“It’s where he keeps his prisoners,” Sebastian says, keeping fixed eye contact with Sherlock. “Where they kept Jim.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply.

Maybe he didn’t know. Seems unlikely, if you look at the way he and Mycroft worked together for the faked suicide. Or, given the way Mycroft has a tendency to keep information from Sherlock _for his own good_ , maybe it’s more likely he wasn’t aware of that particular titbit. Just the results, not the process.

“Interrogated him,” Sebastian says. “Tortured him. For weeks. Not that he gave them anything.”

“He…” Sherlock says, then stops, expression oddly blank.

So he didn’t know.

“Your brother has tortured more people than Jim ever has, and probably killed as well,” Sebastian says flatly. “And you’re still going to pretend you’re the _good guys_? That you’re somehow superior to us?”

Sherlock shakes his head sharply, as if he’s trying to dislodge something. “There’s a difference. Mycroft might be ruthless in what he does, but he does it to protect people, not for – for _profit_. All he does, he does with the best interests of- ”

“And that makes it _right_ , does it?” Sebastian snaps. “The murders? The torture? Sacrificing people who aren’t even involved, all for the sake of the game?”

“Rich, coming from you. Are you honestly lecturing me on morality?”

“You think you’re better, don’t you?” he says, and there's an anger here he can't contain, can't ignore. “Different. Clinging to this role, white hats and black hats. Can’t you take a fucking look at what you're actually doing and see what's there? The differences are cosmetic, Sherlock. You're the same."

Sherlock freezes.

“I don’t kill,” he says, after a moment, voice hard.

“Yes, you do.” Sebastian gives him a joyless smile. “You've killed plenty, or stood by and let them get killed without interfering. Oh, but that's right, you've got  _excuses_. They deserved it, or it was self-defense, or – ”

“Or there was no other solution, yes, but not – ”

“You think I have the fucking luxury of choice?” Sebastian snaps. “If I don’t shoot first, I’m shot, I don’t _get_ to wait and have ethical dilemmas about it.”

Sherlock tilts his head, watching carefully, and suddenly Sebastian feels his anger deflate. He sinks back into the chair.

“No matter who it is,” he says, tiredly, “whether it’s Mycroft’s men or some other crime lord or an intelligence agency, no matter who, they’re all going to want to see me tortured and dead. Are you really so self-centered that you can’t see that?”

“Mycroft – ”

“Mycroft would have me tried and then thrown into Baskerville, until he’d gotten every last drop of information he could squeeze out of me, and then I’d have a convenient _accident_. It’s how he deals with all his problems. He wouldn’t think twice about having me executed.” He leans forward onto his knees and rubs his eyes. “If there really is a difference between us, it's that. Not your moral superiority. Just that I live in a world without your safety net. ”

Sherlock looks away.

Sebastian gives a disgusted sigh and pulls his phone towards him, checking the security updates.

“And what if it isn’t Mycroft?” Sherlock says slowly.

Sebastian looks up.

“If it’s one of the others, they might just as well be after me. I’ve made a lot of enemies over the last few years. And I doubt I’d get a cleaner death than you, if that’s the case.”

“And still you’d hesitate to pull the trigger?”

“As long as there’s another choice, yes.”

Sebastian shakes his head. “Then you’re dangerously naïve.”

“There has to be a difference between them and me.”

“You have to believe there is, that’s all,” Sebastian says, annoyed. “But when you get down to it, those few seconds of hesitation don't mean a fucking thing. We all kill for our own interests. None of us have clean hands here, Sherlock, and it’s about fucking time you acknowledge that.”

Sherlock stares at him, looking for a moment like he's going to reply. Then he pauses, a frown crossing his face.

Sebastian bites down a sharp remark – this is getting them nowhere – and gets up to go over to the window, looking out, arms crossed.

After a while, Sherlock comes to join him.

“Whereto next?” Sebastian asks. He can feel Sherlock looking at him, as if he’s trying to gauge Sebastian’s mood.

“Not sure yet. I need more time to investigate.”

“Right.” He turns and leans against the wall, facing Sherlock who looks… odd. Cautious.

“We’re staying here, then?” Sherlock asks.

“I’d rather not. At any rate, staying in one place too long is risky, and in big cities surveillance is everywhere.”

“So we go somewhere more remote. What’s the nearest safe house?”

Sebastian squeezes his eyes closed, running through his mental map of the world. Greece, wasn’t there –

Ah, right. Macedonia.

He opens his eyes again. “North from here, in the middle of nowhere. Safe, easily defendable if needed.”

“We can go there until I’ve got this worked out,” Sherlock says. “If it's fine by you, that is.”

Sebastian tilts his head, a little surprised at the sudden deference. “Sure,” he says. “Let's pack, then.”

“All right.” Sherlock turns away to the closet, where he put his clothes.

“And I'll steal us a car with A/C this time,” Sebastian adds.

Sherlock doesn't turn around, but Sebastian can still see his small sigh of gratitude.

***

Northern Greece is a world of difference compared to the more southern parts. Even with the ongoing crisis it’s still busy there, especially in Athens. Tourists of all nationalities everywhere, and with them the matching shops, the guides, the aggressive waiters and the buses and hotels. Like Rome, like Paris, like every big European city with sightseeing possibilities, just the same overlay over different architecture.

But here, it’s another story. The few restaurants they pass all have menus in stubborn Greek, not a Roman letter in sight. The people, too, speak only Greek. Luckily Sherlock is fluent enough to ask for directions, considering the Satnav has gone haywire and these roads all look the same. So they drive on, in between olive trees and gorse and craggy mountains, Sebastian racking his brain to try and remember where this particular hidey-hole is situated.

Eventually, they reach what looks like a small house, nestled against the hillside and half-hidden behind a copse of olive trees. Fat chance of anyone finding them here, where even Google Maps fears to tread.

He gets out, looks around. His education is playing up. The landscape almost feels familiar, in a way, the byproduct of an active imagination and surprisingly realistic artwork. He half expects someone in chiton to pop around the corner any minute now, start reciting Homer in a loud carrying voice.

Sherlock is already waiting impatiently by the door. Sebastian goes over and lifts off what looks to be a mailbox, to reveal the digital display underneath it. He puts his hand flat on the display, it gives a _beep_ , and the door clicks open.

Sherlock takes a step back, studying the house, frowning.

“A lot more high-tech than it looks, innit?” Sebastian says, with half a smile.

“I suppose when someone tries to come in without the handprint…”

“It blows up, yeah.” He pushes the door open and gestures Sherlock in.

It’s rather dark inside, one of the few things inside that actually matches the way the outside looks. Inside, it’s much more spacious and luxurious than any of this kind of these small stone houses usually are.

“It’s built into the rock,” Sherlock says, wonderingly. He runs his hand over the smooth whitewashed stone wall of the house-proper, and then over the rough rock next to it. “Hewn into it.”

“Bigger on the inside.”

Sherlock frowns at him. “What?”

“Never mind. Pop culture.”

“I do pop culture.”

“Some of it.” Sebastian drops onto the sofa, looks around.

“Is there WiFi?”

“Yes. Don’t ask me how, it’s got something to do with hijacking satellites or something. I’ll hook up the laptop in a minute, just… give me a moment.” He leans his head against the back of the sofa and sighs, feeling strangely content. He breathes in deeply, relaxing –

Then breathes in again. Sniffs.

Ah. So that’s why he felt so inexplicably happy when he came in. The place still smells like _him_.

He raises his head, looks around. Last time they were here they left in a bit of a rush, and the traces are still visible. Books on the coffee table, on one of the sofas, notes strewn on the floor close to the fireplace, a stray jumper hanging over a chair… Jim’s presence hangs heavy in this room.

And he isn’t the only one who’s noticing. Sherlock is slowly turning around, taking it all in, tense and wary like a deer about to bolt. Cornered.

It’s oddly appealing.

“Come on,” he says, getting up. “Let’s make this place habitable.”

Sherlock follows on his heel, like an anxious child. “You stayed here?”

“A while back, yeah. Not that long before – ” He breaks off, clears his throat. “Before the whole Reichenbach thing. Only a week or so, but I prefer these places to hotels anyway. And so does Jim, I think.”

They go into the bedroom. The old sheets are still on the bed, sunlight falling in through the windows onto the rumpled coverlet, the dented pillows.

“Another holiday home, like the one in Sweden?” Sherlock asks, rather sourly.

“Something like that.” Sebastian pulls the sheets off the bed and tosses them in the corner. “Hand me the new ones, will you?”

“I’m not your maid. You hired me for detective work, remember?”

“I didn’t hire you for sex, either,” Sebastian says. “Look how that turned out.”

“I don’t enjoy housekeeping.”

“Yeah, that was pretty obvious.” He grabs a pillow and pulls the case off. “Lucky you’ve got someone to housekeep for you at home. Well, two someones, I suppose. Fresh sheets are in the left wardrobe.”

Sherlock gets the sheets, and despite his protests, he goes about the business of making the bed in silence - which, for him, is unusual. Sherlock seems the love the sound of his own voice, and he definitely hates letting Sebastian have the last word. Maybe the little dig about his home life hit a sore spot.

When they’re done, Sherlock sits down on the bed, expression a little distant. “The two of you stayed here together?” he asks, sounding thoughtful.

“Yeah. He was doing preparation work, not exactly sure what for, and I was studying.”

Sherlock blinks twice. “Studying?”

“The network. If I was to manage it in his absence, I had to know everything about it.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t exactly a good student, but Jim had his ways of getting me motivated.”

“What wa-” Sherlock starts, then stops. He glances down at the bed beneath him.

“It worked well enough. And it was a nice way to pass the time inbetween the work.”

Sherlock nods absently. He’s bouncing slightly up and down, as if he’s testing the bed. His expression is still abstracted, and as Sebastian watches Sherlock licks his lips, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks.

Sebastian smirks and sits down on the other side of the bed, reaching out – then hesitates.

Sherlock is difficult to read, sometimes, when it comes to sex, and Sebastian _hates_ misreading in this context, hates running the risk of crossing lines.

He carefully puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He shivers, doesn’t move.

Then suddenly turns around and grabs Sebastian by the shirt and drags him into a fiery kiss.

He’s got barely time to get his bearings before Sherlock pulls at him, pushes, throws his leg over Sebastian’s waist, all the while somehow keeping his mouth on Sebastian’s.

“Wh- _Christ_ ,” he gasps, as Sherlock grinds his thigh into Sebastian’s crotch.

“Catch up,” Sherlock growls at him, in obvious challenge, and well, he’s not going to just let _that_ pass, is he?

He grabs Sherlock’s waist, hooks his foot behind Sherlock’s ankle and rolls them over in one swift movement. Sherlock flails in surprise but before he can do anything Sebastian pins his wrists to the mattress. “You were saying?” he says smoothly.

Sherlock scowls. Sebastian lets one wrist go and Sherlock immediately grabs the back of Sebastian’s head and yanks him down for a violent kiss. Sebastian reaches down, finds Sherlock’s crotch – hard already, straining against his trousers, what the _hell_ was he fantasising about? – and presses the palm of his hand against the outline of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock gasps, for one brief moment freezing completely. Then he thaws into action, frantically pulling his trousers and underwear down. Sebastian takes the hint and as soon as Sherlock’s cock is free, he starts jerking him off. Sherlock kisses him again, a little less heated this time, and for a moment he seems content where he is. Then he grunts and grabs Sebastian’s shoulder, pushing him back and down again.

Sebastian rolls with it, watching bemusedly as Sherlock quickly opens Sebastian’s belt, pushes away his trousers and boxers, and then takes hold of Sebastian’s cock in a punishingly hard grip – which is enough to chase away the bemusement and replace it with honest, mindless lust. He writhes, pushes up into Sherlock’s hand, then works his own hand between their bodies to return to favour. Credit where credit’s due, Sherlock only falters for a brief second when Sebastian gets his hand on his cock again, and then he picks up with passionate enthusiasm.

It’s messy, this. Neither of them has the patience to change position, make themselves more comfortable before continuing. Sebastian’s shoulder is starting to cramp up because of the angle, and Sherlock keeps shifting his knees, trying to make enough room between them without putting too much strain on his back or arms, and it would help if they just could stop damn well kissing all the time but it’s like Sherlock is possessed, violent and demanding like he’s never been before. He twists his hand on the upstroke, and Sebastian puts his hand between Sherlock’s shoulders and draws his nails down, and suddenly things get even more frantic.

Sebastian comes first, to his surprise. Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice; Sebastian has to forcibly pull Sherlock’s hand away as soon as he can breathe again, dragging it to his shoulder. Then he grabs Sherlock’s arse, fingers digging into the flesh and all his attention focused on Sherlock’s cock again, and only a few seconds later Sherlock follows him, back arching and semen spilling over Sebastian’s hand and stomach before he collapses on top of him, breathing heavily.

“Well,” Sebastian says, patting Sherlock on the back. “So much for clean sheets.”

“Mmf.”

“It’s all right, we can change them later.”

Sherlock rolls onto his back, arms flung wide.

“That helped to take the edge off, then?” Sebastian asks innocently.

Sherlock glares at him.

Sebastian sits up and stretches, then stands and pulls his trousers back up. “I’ll do the rest of the housekeeping,” he says. “You start your research. As soon as you can think straight again, that is.”

Sherlock gives him another dark look. “And you’ll play housemaid while I do the actual work?”

Sebastian shrugs. “I’ll find something to keep myself busy.”

***

He’s never had holidays in the traditional sense of the word. The periods he was off school when he was a boy were far from relaxing, spent as they were with his parents and their ever-increasing tense silences. Shore leave comes the closest, but even there he mostly spent his time drinking and fucking until the moment he could go back to the army.

Still, when he considers the last week here, _holiday_ still seems the best description. A pause, a moment of calm inbetween the stress of work. He doesn’t have much to do – Sherlock is the one who can spot one of Jim’s cases by the minutest detail, not him – so he spends a lot of time hiking around the surrounding hillscape, or just lying in the sun, tanning.

He opens his eyes, the sun’s glare bright even through his sunglasses, then hauls himself up, arms around his drawn-up knee. He can see for miles, from up here, the meandering road leading to and from the house, the rolling hills beyond... 

Closest thing to a fortress they have, this place. No way in hell anyone can creep up on them here – even if Sebastian’s eyes fail him, there are still the myriad warning systems. Part of his daily hikes was testing the alarms, which were all still in working order. Shows him for doubting Jim’s work.

He crosses his legs and digs his hand into his pocket, taking out the tie pin. The sun catches on the silver, making the fox's eyes glint with life. He runs his thumb over the bumpy surface and sighs.

It’s a pause, not a stop. An interruption, and on the other side there are still his worries looming. They’re still stranded, their only real route cut off and the others all leading nowhere. And they’re still being followed by someone, or multiple someones, they know nothing about. He doesn’t just forget about any of that.

But even he can’t stay in edge for years.

He pulls up the hatch to the attic, almost invisible on the rocky hillside's surface, and hops back inside. It’s startlingly dark after the bright sunshine outside, and cool too, as it is everywhere in this place - Sherlock has proclaimed his gratitude for the A/C several times now, but Sebastian doesn’t particularly mind the heat. The cold reminds him too much of tombs and abandoned cellars.

He heads down two stories and finds Sherlock in his usual position on the floor, sprawled out onto his stomach and surrounded by notes. He’s staring straight ahead, though, not looking at the papers, and it’s not his mind palace face either.

It's not the first time Sebastian has caught him like that. Ever since their argument in Athens, Sherlock has been in an odd mood. Quieter, more thoughtful than before, and not necessarily in a good way either. No longer the eagle-like single-minded focus on the case, closed off to the world outside, like he'd been before; now, more than anything, it feels like he's _brooding_. 

“Everything all right?”

Sherlock jumps, startled.

“Guilty conscience?” Sebastian says, with a smirk.

Sherlock scowls at him but doesn’t say anything.

Sebastian crosses his arms and leans back against the wall. “Do you realise you’re sitting in exactly the same position as when I went upstairs?”

“Yes, and?” Sherlock says impatiently.

“That was two hours ago.”

Sherlock finally meets Sebastian’s eyes, and as he straightens up he winces and reaches for his back. “Loathe as I am to admit it, you may have a point.”

“Well, tell me if you need a massage,” Sebastian says, still smirking.

Sherlock sends him a dark look, then runs his hand down his side, still wincing.

“Ribs still bothering you?” Sebastian asks as he sits down on the sofa, arms spread wide.

“A bit, occasionally, when I make a certain movement.”

“Or when you stay in the same uncomfortable position for hours?” Sebastian suggests innocently.

“Yes, yes, don’t get smug. I was concentrating, that’s all.” Sherlock tilts his head, stretching his neck.

“On work?”

There it is, a minute hesitance, the tiniest of pauses before Sherlock says, “Yes, of course, what else?”

Odd.

“Any progress, then?” 

Sherlock blinks, then runs his hand over his notes, messing up the order. “Yes,” he says. “And no.”

“All right then,” Sebastian says dubiously.

Sherlock shoots him an irritated look. “It happens like that sometimes, my subconscious connecting the pieces before my conscious mind can reach them. I'm sure I have it, I'm almost there, but...” He rubs his eyes. “It’ll come to me. I just need time. Distraction, maybe, letting this go for a while…”

“Makes sense.” He raises his eyebrows. “So how do you distract yourself, then?”

“Good question.” Sherlock swings his legs around and sits up, notes fluttering down to the floor. “One you know the answer to.”

Sebastian smiles. “Are you propositioning me?”

“Are you offering?”

“I’m up whenever,” he says, with an easy shrug. “Just give the word.”

“Come on, then.” Sherlock stands up. “I’m not doing this on top of my notes.”

“No?” Sebastian says, following Sherlock to the bedroom. “Has a certain appeal, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t want to risk getting days’ worth of work smudged because you can’t contain your libido for five extra seconds,” Sherlock says, snootily.

“Whatever you want.” He takes off his shirt, then sits down on the bed to take off his shoes. As he does, his eyes fall to the bedside table. He pauses, head tilted. Considering.

“Well?”

He looks over his shoulder at Sherlock, who’s already naked, cock still soft, hands on his hips. He should look ridiculous – and he does, a little, but there’s something else there as well…

“You up for something new?” Sebastian asks.

Immediately Sherlock’s arrogant, superior expression melts away into wariness. “New?”

“Yeah.” He takes the bottle from the bedside table and lobs it at Sherlock, who catches deftly.

He gives it a look, briefly confused, and then his face clears up. “Ah,” he says.

“Not surprised?”

“If anything, surprised you didn’t bring this up sooner.” He throws the lube back onto the mattress.

“Not so innocent, after all?”

“I’ve done a certain amount of study on the subject.”

“What, you’ve been watching gay porn with a notebook and a pen by hand?” Sebastian smirks. “Most people would just need tissues.”

“Why would – ” Sherlock starts, then breaks off, rolling his eyes.

He isn’t naïve, not really. Or innocent. It’s just like sex working as a motivator is an idea that is completely and utterly foreign to him. And yet, so far he’s been pretty eager to get his leg over.

Sebastian kicks his shoes away from the bed and stands up again to take off his jeans. Sherlock is watching him, still standing, and as Sebastian lowers his eyes, Sherlock’s cock starts to harden.

“Are you attracted to me?” Sebastian asks, on impulse.

Sherlock turns his glacier-eyes to Sebastian’s face. “What?”

“Sorry,” Sebastian says, smiling faintly. “Normally I‘m more subtle about this kind of thing, but I have a feeling that wouldn’t work in your situation.”

“Attracted…” Sherlock repeats slowly. “No. Or – well, yes, I suppose. What does it really mean, anyway?”

“It’s the kind of thing you can’t really explain in words, I reckon. It’s just – desire.”

“For sexual gratification.”

“Yeah, but also just – touch. Nearness. Causing reactions, maybe – I don’t know. It’s difficult to explain.”

Sherlock crosses his arms, still frowning. “I certainly haven’t felt this way before, no.”

“Not even with Adler?”

He looks up, a little startled. “Like this? No, of course not. Irene Adler was – different.”

“Different how?”

“I didn’t – I mean, I didn’t want this. I _don’t_ want this, not with her.”

“So what _do_ you want with her?”

Sherlock is silent.

Sebastian shrugs and drops his jeans. “Curiosity. Don’t worry about it too much.  Most people spend most of their puberty figuring this shit out.”

“You too?”

“I… got it all worked out pretty early, actually. Didn’t spend much time worrying about it. I just… knew what I wanted, and then tried to get it.”

“As simple as that?”

“Yeah. It’s always been like that. Apart from the obvious, of course.” He sits down on the bed, stretches out.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock says, sitting down at the foot of the bed.

“He certainly wasn’t simple,” Sebastian says, smiling a little at the memories.

Sherlock cocks his head. “Was he that different? How?”

“He was immensely different, but I’m not sure if I can… I've told you before, there really are no words to do it justice.” He leans back against the headboard, thinking. “I mean, he’s exceptional in every respect, not just the sex. But it’s never been – it’s like he can look straight into my head – no, not even that, like he knows every single thing I feel and he knows exactly how to handle those too. It’s – I’ve never met _anyone_ who comes even close to being as responsive and alert as he is.”

No reply.

Sebastian looks up. Sherlock’s mouth is a little parted, his eyes dark.

Sebastian smirks. “And _that_ , Sherlock, is what we call _sexual_ _attraction_.”

“I, what?” Sherlock says, startled and shocked. “That’s not – it’s just – ”

“Don’t worry.” Sebastian reaches over and pats Sherlock’s knee, with sadistic delight. “I know exactly how you feel. Jim _is_ pretty irresistible when he puts his mind to it. And he certainly went all the way for you.”

“I’m, I _do not – ”_   Sherlock splutters.

“It’s painfully obvious you do,” Sebastian says, amused.

“It’s – it’s not about _sex_ , it’s about minds, about…”

“Well, it is now.” Sebastian grins. “Sorry for planting the idea in your head, then.”

Sherlock shakes his head, still looking disturbed. “I don’t…”

“Yeah, whatever. Now come up here and lie back.”

Sherlock pulls a face at Sebastian’s commanding tone, but crawls up and follows the order all the same. “What happens next?” he asks, and there may be some sulk left in his tone, but it seems he’s back in the present.

“Preparation.” Sebastian leans over to the drawer to pull out a latex glove.

“Hygiene has suddenly become important to you?”

“I want my hands fully available later,” Sebastian says. He puts on the glove, straddles Sherlock’s thighs, and takes the lube.

Sherlock moves as if to spread his legs, then stops and widens his eyes in surprise when Sebastian reaches behind him. “I thought you would…”

“Did you?” Sebastian cocks his head, watches the confusion cross Sherlock’s face. “Look,” he says impatiently, “just in case, let’s be clear about this: you may have picked up a thing or two about bottoming and what’s that supposed to tell you about someone from all your porn-watching, but let me tell you right now that’s complete and utter bullshit.”

“It’s not about submission,” Sherlock says, as if he’s trying out the idea.

“It can be, just as everything else can be. Now shut up, I need my concentration.”

Sebastian winces as he pushes his fingers inside. He’s never had much patience for this when he has to do it himself, and it’s been much too long since he last had anything up his arse.

Meanwhile, Sherlock is watching him with scientific interest, which would be creepy if it wasn’t for the sight of his cock betraying that this isn’t all just an objective thing for him.

“Can I…” Sherlock starts.

“No.”

Sherlock all but pouts. “Why not?”

“Because this fucking hurts if you do it wrong and I’ve got no intention to allow you to fumble around.”

Sherlock’s face does that thing it does whenever his pride is insulted.

“We’ll get there, eventually,” Sebastian says. He closes his eyes and arches back, ‘cause the initial discomfort is disappearing and his body is starting to remember the way this usually goes, and, well… Conditioning goes a long way.

A touch on his thigh makes him open his eyes again.

It’s easy to think Sherlock is just a blushing virgin, another beginner, the kind of which he’s had a few before. Shy, nervous, having to be shown the way. But that’s forgetting about the fact that Sherlock _isn’t_ like anyone else – one obvious person excepted – and that he might not know his way around sex, but that doesn’t mean he’s in any way _innocent_.

And the expression on his face right now is close to ravenous.

Sebastian scoots back and gets a condom from the bedside table, left-handed, then throws it to Sherlock. He catches, deftly.

“Put that on, I’m nearly done here,” Sebastian says.

Sherlock gives him a look, then rips open the package and gingerly picks out the condom. His nose is turned up. For someone who goes dumpster-diving on a fairly regular basis and who lives in what’s basically a pigsty, he can be oddly fastidious sometimes.

Three fingers up to the knuckle later his shoulder is starting to ache, but the burn of it has worn off. Sebastian pulls his hand back and snaps the glove off, turning it inside out and throwing it off the bed. He scoots forward, one hand leaning on Sherlock’s chest for balance, other reaching back.

Sherlock is watching him intently, hands flat on the bed. Poised, waiting, watching. And taking every detail in, storing it away.

Sebastian briefly closes his eyes. Then he opens them again, takes a deep breath, guides Sherlock’s cock in and sinks down, just a little.

It _has_ been too long. He takes a moment adjusting, getting rid of that old familiar feeling of _nope, can’t, too big_ , letting it pass. Meanwhile Sherlock is gripping Sebastian's hip one-handed, nails digging into the skin.

He can’t remember his first time. Had it been this intense?

He rocks a little, letting Sherlock’s cock slip almost entirely out before going deeper – it helps with the adjustment, his body slowly getting used again to being taken. He breathes out slowly, forces himself to relax, and goes down, deeper, inch by inch, taking his time. Sherlock doesn’t make a sound, but his grip on Sebastian’s hip has gone white-knuckled.

“All right,” Sebastian says, a little breathless, once he’s as far as he can go right now. “That’s – okay. You?”

Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes out long and hard through his nose.

“Still think this is on the same level as a quick wank?” Sebastian asks, grinning.

Sherlock glares at him. “Are you going to _move_?” he sneers. “Since you insisted on being on top, I suppose that’s your job, now.”

“It is.” He rocks his hips and Sherlock’s eyes snap closed again, his mouth moving in a silent curse. “Don’t come too soon,” Sebastian says. He draws his hand over Sherlock’s chest, thumb lingering on the nipple, and Sherlock shivers. His other hand comes up to Sebastian’s hip as well, and he tugs, a little, as if he’s trying to urge Sebastian on.

“Want something?” Sebastian asks, innocently.

“If you don’t move,” Sherlock says between gritted teeth, “I’ll – ”

“You’ll what?” Sebastian asks, mocking.

Sherlock’s eyes flare, and for a moment Sebastian genuinely expects Sherlock to throw him onto the bed, press him face-first down into the mattress and fuck him speechless, and that’s – that’s quite the image.

But Sherlock is still new to this. Sebastian shifts his knee back, braces his hands on Sherlock’s chest and starts moving, up and down, quick and hard, the slap of flesh hitting flesh counterpointed by Sherlock’s gasps and groans.

It takes a moment before he really finds his rhythm, but once he’s into it, it’s… It’s good, not just the purely physical, but Sherlock reacting to it, eyes squeezed shut, panting, almost overwhelmed – is he? Should they have a break – but no, Sherlock’s eyes open again, his pupils darkening the blue of his irises and yeah, he’s feeling this.

Sebastian slows down, going up high enough that Sherlock’s cock almost slips free, then slowly sliding down again, making Sherlock feel every inch of it. And not just Sherlock; he’s rock-hard here, but obviously Sherlock doesn’t have enough free mental space to devote to Sebastian’s pleasure, and besides, Sebastian is enough of a masochist that the idea of being fucked without getting anything in return is appealing on its own.

For a while, at least.

He leans forward a little, experimenting with the angle. Too much direct pressure and it gets painful too quickly, but while the fucking itself is nice enough it’s always better if he can just hit the right spot…

There.

He grins, wildly, cock twitching and body arching as Sherlock’s cock bumps into something good with every thrust.

“That’s - prostate?”

Sebastian blinks, looks down. Sherlock is a picture, hair sweaty and face flushed, but the look in his eyes is remarkably clear.

“Yeah,” Sebastian says, briefly settling back a little, just rocking his hips. The muscle of his calf is starting to cramp up, and that’s a kind of pain he actually doesn’t get off on.

“That’s, you – ” Sherlock moans.

“Wait,” Sebastian says, hand on Sherlock’s leg.

“ _Wait_?” Sherlock repeats, outraged.

“Getting too tired. Hold on.” He sits up, letting Sherlock’s cock slip from him, then gets his knees on the bed again. He spreads his thighs wide, grabs hold of the headboard with one hand, then looks over his shoulder at Sherlock.

He’s wide-eyed, mouth open. Daunted.

“Your turn,” Sebastian says lazily. “I’m sure you know how this works. And trust me, once you get going it sort of works itself out.”

“You – you want me to…”

“Fuck me, yes. Which is why I’m arse-up on the bed, in case you hadn’t _deduced_ that yet.”

Sherlock opens his mouth as if to speak, closes it again. His expression settles, jaw squaring, determined. “Fine,” he growls, and gets up on his knees. He takes Sebastian’s hip, the mattress shifting beneath them. Sebastian can feel the tip of Sherlock’s cock nudging him, then slipping down.

“Get _on_ with it, will you?” Sebastian snaps.

“Give me a…” More shifting, the squirt of lube from the bottle, a brief touch of Sherlock’s hesitant slick fingers and then his cock is back, pushing in slowly.

For a few moments, neither of them moves. He can hear Sherlock’s laboured breathing, feel a faint tremble at Sherlock’s hand, still resting on his hip. He drops his head forward, then rocks back a little.

That seems to snap Sherlock out of it. His grip on Sebastian’s hip goes firmer and he pulls out, not too far, before pushing in again. Slowly, searching, finding out how this works and oddly, that’s enough to send a jolt of heat down his spine, to his cock.

Then Sherlock picks up pace, shallow thrusts at first but gradually going deeper, gaining confidence, and Sebastian’s knee shifts, he has to hold on to the headboard to keep from slipping. Braced like that, he starts moving along in sync, rocking into the thrusts.

“You – you like it like this?” Sherlock gasps behind him.

Sebastian laughs, breathlessly. “I like everything, mate.”

Sherlock briefly pauses, adjusting, knees shuffling on the bedspread, and then suddenly he’s going _hard_ , his hips hitting Sebastian’s arse with each thrust, and, yeah, he definitely likes it like this, it’s –

“ _Fuck_.” Sherlock’s cock, slipping free, bound to happen if he keeps going like that. Sherlock grabs Sebastian’s hips and pulls him back, thrusting in deep in one go. Sebastian drops his head forward, groans, hand tightening on the headboard. Sherlock is getting close too, judging by his breathing, the increased erraticness of his movement. Sebastian reaches back, finding his cock –

And, much to his surprise, Sherlock beats him to it. He doesn’t do much, just holding on to Sebastian’s cock, fingers tightening and loosening convulsively as he keeps fucking Sebastian with wild abandon. Then there’s a catch in the rhythm, a deep grunt, Sherlock thrusting in once, twice – and Sebastian quickly gets his hand around Sherlock’s, jerking himself off, but it’s too late and Sherlock curses again, then pulls quickly out.

“Ow,” Sherlock says, reproachfully.

“Yeah, well,” Sebastian says, eyes closed, hand on his cock, trying to get this over with, close to the edge –

And suddenly there are fingers inside of him, pushing down, and he comes with a startled groan, collapsing face-down with his cock still twitching in aftershocks.

He turns his head, looking to his side. Sherlock wipes his fingers on the sheets with an expression of distaste, then slides down, stretched out, hands folded over his stomach.

“You,” Sebastian says, still breathless, “are a fucking  _natural_.”

Sherlock’s cool eyes turn to him. “Pun intended?”

“Think I’ve got energy left to think of puns?” He heaves himself over and flops down again, onto his back.

“It hurt,” Sherlock says, after a moment, considering. “After I came, when you…” He makes a squeezing motion with his hand.

“Sensitivity skyrockets after orgasm.”

“I know that,” Sherlock says, irritably. “I just didn’t think it would be… What’s the other way like?”

Sebastian rubs his face. “What other way?”

“If I keep fucking you when you’ve already come. Does it hurt as well?”

“It’s not pleasant, no. Unless you’re into that sort of thing, I suppose.”

Sherlock tilts his head, a mocking glint in his eyes. “I thought you were into anything and everything?”

“Depends on the situation. And the participants.” He breathes out and stretches.“Doesn’t really do that much for me if it’s by accident.”

“I’ll try it on purpose next time,” Sherlock says lazily.

“Yeah, no. Don’t try to run before you can walk, darling.”

“ _Darling_?”

Sebastian huffs. “It’s what Jim calls me, sometimes. Must’ve picked it up from him.”

“One of many things, no doubt.”

“Well, yeah. He taught me. Made me the man I am today.”

“His right hand,” Sherlock says.

“That’s one name for it.” He folds his hands behind his head, eyes closed. “Doesn’t much matter what people call it. All I know is that I’m his.”

“His to command,” Sherlock mutters, and something in his voice makes Sebastian turn to look at him.

The post-coital peace seems to have completely left him. Instead, he has gone thoughtful again, but not in his usual clinical, detached, rationalising way. Eyebrows down and mouth thin, subtle tension running through him, almost as if he’s angry – quietly, bitterly angry.

Sebastian clears his throat. “Are you...”

“Am I what?” Sherlock asks, voice sharp and cool, still staring up at the ceiling.

“Is something wrong?”

“I can't get out of this alive, can I?”

Sebastian sits up in surprise, and Sherlock turns his head, those shard-of-ice eyes skipping over Sebastian's face with an alarming amount of scrutiny.

“What's brought this on, then?” Sebastian asks.

“You can never let me escape,” Sherlock continues. “You live in the shadows. Unknown, invisible. Even Mycroft doesn't know about you. But I do, and if I get back to him..."

“Unless you keep quiet about it.” 

Sherlock shakes his head, ignoring him. “And if I don't run away, if I stay here - I know what lies at the end of the road for me. My life depending entirely on the mood of an unstable psychopath... A quick death is the best outcome, all in – ”

“Jim doesn’t want you dead,” Sebastian interrupts.

Sherlock's lip curls. “He  _forced me to jump off a rooftop_.”

“Only because you lost the game. You know this. He doesn’t  _want_ you dead. He wants you alive. Entertaining. Distracting.” He rubs his forehead. “At least, that’s what I think. I don’t exactly understand what’s going on between the two of you.”

Sherlock looks away. “There’s nothing going on between him and me.”

“Do you want it to?”

Sherlock doesn't reply, still staring fixedly at the ceiling.

“You’re here for a reason, Sherlock,” Sebastian says. “You want something out of this. And it’s not to bring either me or Jim to justice, or even to kill us.”

“Then what is my reason?” Sherlock asks, and it’s probably meant as sarcastic but there’s an edge to it, almost as if he genuinely doesn’t know, as if he’s hoping Sebastian might give him the answer.

“I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t understand either you or him.”

“You keep saying you know him.”

“I know the way he works. That doesn’t mean I know what’s going on exactly in his head. No one can – except for you, I sup-”

“I  _don’t_ ,” Sherlock says, voice boiling with frustration. “I don’t understand what he thinks, I don’t know what he’ll do, I can’t manage to – ”

“Don’t you?” Sebastian tilts his head. “Or don’t you _want_ to understand?”

Sherlock stares at Sebastian for a moment. 

Then he gets out of bed and goes over to the window, hands folded behind his back, shoulders tense.

Sherlock stays quiet. It's a strange mood, this one, and there's something fragile about it, as if the wrong word, the wrong idea might just push Sherlock over the edge. And the last thing he needs right now is a genius in breakdown.

“You know why I didn't run?” Sherlock asks.

“Do you?”

“No. Not really.” Sherlock frowns. “I just know that I couldn’t leave this behind. I can’t go until I’ve found him.” 

“And then it ends, does it?”

“Doesn’t it? I don’t – ” Sherlock stops, presses his lips together. “It used to be so clear. I find Moriarty, I lock him up again. I defeat him. But now…” He shakes his head. “It’s not so simple, is it? There are dozens of way to handle this, far safer and saner, and yet this is the path I’ve chosen. Dangerous and stupid and  _insane_ , and - And I know that whatever it is, there’s going to be a cost. Whatever happens, it’ll be dangerous. And yet I can’t – I can’t stomach the idea of giving up. Leaving this behind.”

“Because you’re obsessed with finding him.”

“Yes,” he says, eyes distant. “But not  _only_  that. It’s not just the result, it’s the – ” He stops again, obviously struggling with his thoughts.

Sebastian sits up, looking at him a little more closely. Sherlock looks deeply uncomfortable.

“The process?” Sebastian tries. “This whole manhunt?”

Sherlock nods, tightly.

“Why are you so surprised?” Sebastian asks, curiously. “You’re different, you’ve known that forever, right? You enjoy things other people tell you you shouldn’t, don’t see the appeal of other things that other people praise to high heaven. Isn’t this just another one of those things?”

“Yes, and no. I’ve never… I’ve never strayed like this. I’ve always known when I went too far, when I had to stop. That line.  _White hats and black hats_ , in your words.” He shakes his head. “It’s getting blurrier every day.”

“Does it bother you?”

“It bothers me that it doesn’t bother me.”

Sebastian snorts. “Worrying about not worrying? That’s a mess.”

“I know.” Sherlock sighs and runs his hand over his face. “I keep thinking in circles. I can’t make any sense of this whatsoever. And all the while there’s  _you_ ,” he adds, viciously.

“Me?”

“You make it easy. No one’s ever made it  _easy_. I didn’t even know people could. And now there’s you, and…” He makes an irritated gesture.

Sebastian stares at him, dumbfounded.

He never spent much thought on what Sherlock thought of him. Irritation, disgust, impatience, all those things he picked up from the start and he’d just assumed that it would stay like that.

He never considered that Sherlock would actually start to  _like_ him.

“It’s too late to back out,” Sherlock mutters. “So I’ll just have to… What, carry on and damn the consequences?”

“Isn’t that what you always do?”

Sherlock looks around at the rumpled sheets on the bed. “Yes,” he says, “but that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”

Sebastian rubs his eyes. “ _Theoretically_ , it isn’t really too late. It’s never too late to go back, honestly. You’d hardly be the first man alive who went away for a bit, played at being a bad boy, then came back with his tail between his legs. People are always reinventing themselves, it’s not – What did I say?” he adds, because Sherlock has suddenly frozen, eyes faraway.

Then Sherlock turns on his heel and marches out of the bedroom, back into the living room. 

Sebastian blinks, staring after him for a moment. Then he gets out of bed and follows Sherlock to the living room, where he's sitting at the desk, laptop in front of him.

“I take it the distraction worked, then?” Sebastian asks.

“Shush,” Sherlock says absently as he opens up a browser window.

“Nothing shakes up the subconscious thoughts like a good hard fuck, does it?”

“Shut  _up_.” Sherlock types rapidly, screens appearing and disappearing.

Sebastian slowly approaches Sherlock, much as he would a wild animal. More information flashes across the screen, gone too quickly for him to read anything beyond fragments – a news report of a few years back, a close-up of an ID, flight details…

“There,” Sherlock says, suddenly and triumphantly, swivelling the laptop towards Sebastian. The screen shows a picture of a dark-haired, middle-aged man who looks vaguely familiar.

“This,” Sherlock says, “is Thomas Montalbán, claimed to be a Spanish-English businessmen, recently bought his way into a multinational conglomerate.”

Sebastian narrows his eyes. “I think I know him.”

“You might well, because this – ” he types something in and a new screen opens up, showing the same man – younger, sharper, but very much the same “- is Baron Albert Gruner, an ambitious crime lord in Central Europe, until his rule got suddenly cut short somewhere around 2005.”

Sebastian nods. “Gruner. I remember him now - right twat.”

“So I’m right in thinking Moriarty had some kind of running in with him?”

“Yes. He asked for Jim’s advice on a case, which he got, and which he then completely ignored. Almost got caught, obviously, only got away by dumb luck. But he was too important to just kill off, and not important enough to spend much time on, so he sort of… slid to the background. I didn’t even know he resurfaced. What did he die of?”

“Natural causes.”

“Which you don’t believe?”

“The details don’t add up.” He tilts his head, eyes fixed on Sebastian with a look he can’t read. “What do you think? Could it be him?”

 Sebastian nods, slowly.

“All right, then. Let’s head to Spain.”

And, true to form, he can see the excitement in Sherlock’s eyes, the pleasure in this chase.

Sherlock was right.

He’s in far too deep to back out now.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! Easter interfered. Next chapter should normally be up this weekend, as planned.


	9. Madrid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe a thank you ironhammer over at tumblr, for kindly proving me with decent Spanish to include in this bit.
> 
> warnings for violence, explicit sex, sadism/masochism, and wobbly morality

He’s naked.

He’s naked, and acutely aware of it in a way he never really felt before. Of the scratchy sheets beneath his back and thighs, the heat of the sunlight coming through the windows, and –

And Moran, crawling over him like a particularly lazy, lascivious panther.

“Can’t move,” Sherlock mutters. “Too hot.”

“Fine by me,” Moran says, voice low, rumbly. He bends down and closes his teeth on Sherlock’s throat. Lightly, of course, barely more than a graze, but still. It just _screams_ predator, and he can’t help a small tremble, a quiet moan.

Moran pulls back, grins, then dips his head again, mouth on Sherlock’s collarbone.

It really is hot. They still can’t afford upscale hotels, still condemned to the sleazy, cheap, anonymous kind, and apparently sleazy, cheap, anonymous hotels don’t invest in temperature control. The AC’s occasional breeze of lukewarm air, if anything, only accentuates the wet stale heat in the room.

He breathes out, shivers again as Moran sucks hard at the juncture of his shoulder and neck. He’s sticky with sweat, the smell of it everywhere, sunk into the sheets, into his skin.

Moran’s hand is on his knee. Pushing his legs open, slow and deliberate, and there’s something about that action, simple and relatively innocent but the intent behind it –

He arches up. Moran grins again, wide, smoke-stained teeth showing. He changes his position, lounging almost perpendicular to Sherlock, one arm thrown over his stomach, holding him down. He briefly looks down at Sherlock’s crotch, then leans forward and takes his cock into his mouth.

Sherlock arches again, fingers twisting into the sheets, his strange passive inertia finally eradicated. Moran’s hand is still on the inside of his leg, his thigh, stroking up, his thumb just rubbing beneath Sherlock’s balls, then dipping lower and then there’s _pressure_.

Not much. He doesn’t even push in. But it’s just, that slow press, the threat-and-promise of it, and Moran is sucking hard on the head of Sherlock’s cock and he likes it when it’s rough, when it’s bordering on pain, and Moran knows it because Moran is good at this, he’s stellar, he’s frightening, he’s –

Sherlock comes, teeth in his bottom lip, rolling onto his side the second his cock has stopped twitching. Moran wipes his mouth, then hops off the bed, disappearing to the bathroom.

Sherlock slowly lets his breathing calm down. He rolls onto his back, his face twisting as he half pulls the sticky sheets along. There’s a brief gust of almost-cool air, barely noticeable. Except it is, of course.

He closes his eyes.

He's always liked the feeling of air on bare skin. Clothing often itches or chafes in an infuriatingly distracting way, and as long as there aren't any other people around, it feels like a natural thing to do. He never really spent much thought on it. Nakedness was just another of those physical comforts, like sleeping when he's tired, drinking when he's thirsty; nice enough, but inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

Or that's what he used to think.

He opens his eyes again, staring at the crack in the ceiling, a spider patiently working on its web in the far corner.

It’s hard to imagine the way he felt before, his body nothing but transport. Seems laughable. Look at all the things it can do, the things it can make him feel if treated right.

The click of a lighter makes him blink, look up. Moran lights a cigarette and sits down on the bed. He takes a deep drag, then hands it over to Sherlock.

Odd, really. Not that long ago this kind of casual intimacy would have felt disgusting to him. Now, it’s just…It _is_. It’s become part of his life, much like the visits to Scotland Yard, or Mrs Hudson’s cleaning, or John’s admiration.

John.

“What are you thinking about?” Moran asks.

Sherlock looks aside, watches Moran’s mouth, reddish and swollen. “John,” he says, voice hoarse and scratchy. “What he would think if…”

Moran snorts.

“He never really understood, you know.” Sherlock puts one hand behind his head, winces as he pulls his thighs apart. “He tried to, he respected it, but he simply… He kept asking. _Why don’t you have a girlfriend._ ”

“For most people, sex is as much part of their daily live as eating or breathing.”

“Nobody dies from not having sex. And I doubt many people have sex three times a day, every day.”

“Well, no. But it’s still a basic need.” Moran steals the cigarette back. “Something – primal. Something that overrides rational thought.”

Sherlock huffs in derision. “I’ve seen that in action, yes.”

“Think you’re above that, do you?” Moran asks, eyebrows raised.

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, than stops himself.

“For example,” Moran continues, a glint in his eye, “right now, you’re suffering from the heat. The wise thing, the _logical_ thing would’ve been to relax, take a nap, maybe. Avoid physical exertion. And yet…” He smirks, eyes dropping to the rumpled sheets.

“Yes, yes, don’t get smug.” Sherlock sits up a little straighter, flapping his arm in irritation. The sheets are still sticking to him, almost feeling like he’s pulling away the upper layer of skin when he moves up.

It’s not that he _minds_ being dirty, but this is…

“I need a shower,” he mutters.

“What’s the point?” Moran says. “You’re just going to get all sweat-soaked again five minutes later.”

Sherlock glares at him. Infuriatingly, Moran doesn’t seem to mind the heat all that much. True, right now he’s in much the same state as Sherlock is, but that’s just because of the sex. Outside, when they’re out in the sun, Moran traipses around like it’s a mild English spring instead of the current blistering thirty-five plus degrees.

He’s tanned too, and his hair bleached from sandy brown to almost-blond. It makes him look odd, here, when he’s naked, like he’s wearing gloves up to half his upper arm. The rest of him isn’t that much darker than Sherlock is.

“Why are you so…” Sherlock asks, frustrated.

“Cos I grew up in climates that make this one look chilly.” He takes another drag, then looks aside, catches Sherlock’s eye, and smiles. “South India.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Being around my father. He was a high-ranking diplomat, stationed in South-East Asia for half of my childhood. Technically, my mother tongue is Urdu.”

“And the international schools?”

“Came after. He got promoted, called back to Europe. Must have been, what, eight? Nine? Young enough to adapt to the new cultures and languages, but already too old to just leave behind what I knew without looking back.” He puffs on his cigarette again, a faraway look in his eyes.

That’s odd, too. An intimacy of the same kind the physical side is.

It feels… good. Strangely. Comforting. Not the warm glow John used to give him, not the complex mess of emotions that bobs up every time he sees his brother, not even the grating childhood-tinged annoyance-and-safety of his parents. This is less intense than that. Less complicated too, paradoxically.

It just is.

“Come on,” Moran says. He hands over what’s left of his cigarette and gets out of bed, stretching. The flexing of his back muscles makes the scars between his shoulders blades pull, change shape.

Moriarty’s signature. Marking his territory.

Despite the heat, Sherlock shivers.

“Coming?” Moran asks, with a look over his shoulder.

Next time he’ll see Moriarty, it will be with all this hanging between them. With the sure knowledge that Sherlock’s had what Moriarty’s had.

Yet another thing they have in common, now.

“Sherlock?” Moran says, patiently.

He stubs out the cigarette on the bedside table and gets up.

***

The motorway. Signs pointing to villages and cities he’s never heard off. Cars zipping past them, landscapes stark, more desert than anything else. The occasional tree. Roadside restaurants and bars…

The same sights over and over and over again.

Sherlock leans his head back against the car seat and closes his eyes, bored out of his mind.

There’s nothing to occupy himself with. Any information on the current case has all long been gathered, analysed, and re-analysed until he could recite it by heart. There is no new information left to find – apart, of course, from the things he could find using Moriarty’s mysterious programme. But with Moran still steadfastly refusing access, there is, simply, nothing to do but wait until they reach their destination.

If only they could just take a plane, get there without this damned delay, the trail growing colder with every minute they lose. But the risk of being found…

Then again, they’re not exactly risk-free here, either. After Athens and Macedonia they’d almost started to believe they had finally shaken their tail. Then Montenegro had happened, an ambush that they’d only narrowly managed to avoid, and after that the two men in Marseille, waiting for them outside the hotel room. And after that…

Sherlock glances at the rearview mirror again, studying the cars on their tail. Yes, there he is again. Now if -

“Do you have a plan?”

Sherlock looks at Moran. “Sorry?”

“For investigating this murder. Break into the local morgue again?”

“No,” Sherlock says. “At this point, it’s less about the murder itself and more about everything around it. We need to find out how Montalbán created this identity. How he maintained it.”

“And if he kept his old activities up, I suppose,” Moran says. “Shouldn’t be that big a problem, I’ve got a few contacts I can call up. We’re being followed,” he adds, rather calmly.

Sherlock gives him a small smile. “Finally noticed, did you? I was wondering how long that would take.”

“Ha ha, very funny.” Moran looks at the rearview mirror. “Grey Audi. What do you think, innocent?”

“Hardly. They’ve been following us for, how long? Over half an hour?”

“At least. We’re going to need to do something about it, right?”

“Obviously.”

“All right.” Moran grabs the gear stick. “Hold on, then.”

And he accelerates.

Moran drives like a madman, when the need arises. Sherlock is used to London cab drivers, a little reckless driving hardly phases him, but Moran… He’s another category all together.

“Guess they’re not innocent,” Moran says, with a quick look at the mirror. “They’re on our heels.”

“Think they’ll make an outright move?”

“They already did, following us like this. _Fuck_.”

Sherlock twists in his seat. They’re still too far away to be able to distinguish faces, or any other giveaways. All he can see from here is the car, neutral, bland.

“We can’t outrun them, not in this old piece of shite.” Moran presses his lips together.

“If you can get ahead far enough, we can lay a trap,” Sherlock says, turning back.

“I can’t get a lead like this, they’ll be on us in minutes.” He looks over his shoulder, and a strange expression crosses his face. “Take the wheel.”

“What?”

“Take the wheel,” Moran repeats, with some emphasis, and then he lets go and gets his knee up on the seat.

Sherlock quickly scrambles to grab the wheel and steer them back onto the road, and Moran takes the gun from underneath the seat and rolls the window down and –

“You’re _insane_ ,” Sherlock says, and somewhere he’s certain that he should sound panicked, not _excited_ , but Moran grins wide at him and Sherlock can’t help but respond in kind and then Moran is up through the window, one hand holding on to the top of the car and the other unerringly pointing a gun at their pursuers.

Sherlock swerves to avoid a pothole and there is a succession of four quick shots. Then Moran swings back down into the seat, and behind them there’s a loud crash.

Moran takes the next left. No one is behind them.

“I may be insane,” Moran says, calmly. “But at least I’m effective.”

“I’m not complaining.”

Moran gives him a sideways look. “No, you’re not, are you?” he says thoughtfully.

Then there’s a sharp turn up ahead and he has to look back at the road or crash into the gutter.

Sherlock closes his eyes and leans his head back against the headrest. The adrenaline is dying down again, leaving him a little shaky, but…

At least it's better than boredom.

***

They leave the local highway about two hours later, onto the flyover leading into Madrid city. It’s still well before noon, but Sherlock can already practically see the heat rising off the asphalt.

“You’ve been here before?” he asks, as he takes in the environment zooming past them. New cities are always a little overwhelming, especially the bigger ones; he tends to need a few hours to get it all parsed, stored away. The architecture, the pattern of the streets, the language…

“Yeah, on business. And before that, when I was a kid. Don’t remember much of it, though.” Moran glances at the Satnav, then takes a right into what looks like a residential area. A few minutes later he pulls up in front of a small, nondescript house.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Not a hotel?”

“B&B. It’s surprisingly hard to find cheap, non-chain hotels in a city like Madrid. I made a reservation yesterday night, we should be good.”

They get out and go to the reception. It’s become routine, by now. The only difference is the design of the place – beige and copper, this time, faded flowers on the wallpaper and a tarnished brass chandelier– and the language Moran speaks. His French is pitch-perfect but his Croatian is sketchy at best; Spanish, apparently, is another winner.

The owner takes them up to their room, gives them an ill-disguised curious look, then leaves them to it.

Sherlock immediately goes up to the A/C and tries to switch it on. It takes a few attempts before he gets it going, but then the air it blows is undeniably cold.

“Oh thank god,” Sherlock says, head tilted back and eyes closed. “If this case doesn’t work out I’m finding us another one in Scandinavia next.”

“Let’s at least try here first.” Moran drops the bags and is already half-undressed before he even reaches the door of the bathroom.

Sherlock looks out of the window. They’re in what looks like the suburbs, streets small and calm, not many cars around. Which is good, all things considered. Any potential threats would be obvious here.

Sherlock turns and goes to the bathroom. “You said you had sources?” he asks, over the clatter of the shower.

“A few, yeah,” Moran says, loudly. “Enough to quickly find out if Montalbán had been up to his old tricks or not.”

Sherlock splashes some water onto his face, then runs his hand through his hair, turning up his nose. The sweat has made his curls go flat, lifeless, and it irks him. He’s used to looking – well, neat, at the very least.

Moran steps out and takes a towel. Sherlock gives him an absent look. He’s been in the car too long to have much energy left for anything else, but there’s still something inside of him that perks up at the sight of Moran, naked and wet, stretching with almost pornographic contentment.

“You know,” Moran says, eyes still closed, “I detest flying first class and staying at five-star hotels but Christ if it doesn’t have benefits as well.” He opens his eyes, relaxes, and his smile grows. “I just got cleaned up,” he says. “I don’t really fancy getting all sweaty again.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “No worries, your virtue is safe.”

“For the moment. Go on, hop in, you look miserable, you vain little sod.”

Sherlock strips in about two seconds flat, then dives into the shower.

The water – cold, at first, then a little warmer when he’s cooled down enough – does a world of good, although the tiny bar of soap provided by the host is so hard it more scrapes than washes and the pressure from the showerhead slows gradually down until it’s barely more than a trickle. Still, at least the sweat is all gone.

He gets out again, dries off, and goes back to the main room. The only chair looks splintery and uncomfortable, so he drops down on the bed. The sheets are surprisingly clean, smelling of washing powder and lavender – no suspicious stains or linen so crisp it might as well be cardboard this time.

He stretches, then rolls over onto his stomach, cheek resting on his hand. “Why am I so exhausted?” he mumbles.

“Surprisingly tiring, sitting in a car doing nothing, isn’t it? Here, found something.”

The bed dips and Moran sits down next to him. He puts the laptop in front of them and moves close, one hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, warm and heavy.

“What is this?” Sherlock asks, pushing up onto his elbows.

“Research,” Moran says, adjusting the screen so Sherlock can see. “His old connections.”

Sherlock frowns at the diagram. It isn’t one he’s seen before, but he checked every report he could find on the man so that’s –

That’s Moriarty’s work.

“Interesting case, really,” Moran says. “He was involved in a lot of things but not really at the centre of anything – more of a facilitator than a true crime lord.” He curls his fingers and runs his hand up Sherlock’s back. He seems to be doing it mostly automatically, his attention still focused on the diagram. “Connections, that’s what he thrived on. Suppose that’s what we’re looking for here.”

“Drugs?” Sherlock asks, running his eye over the different nodes in the network. “Importing?”

“Nah, I’m thinking he changed his purview, gone into something less risky.”

Sherlock looks back at the computer, then sighs, gives in, and flops down, cheek resting on the mattress. He can _hear_ Moran smirk, but all he does is run his hand over Sherlock’s back, from the base of his skull all the way down to his tailbone.

It’s… nice. And not even sexual, for once.

“How long has it been?” Moran asks.

“How long has what been?” Sherlock ask, eyes half closed in enjoyment.

“That someone touched you. Like this, I mean. Before me.”

Sherlock frowns, then rolls over onto his back. “Never. You’re supposed to know this.”

“The sex, yeah, but you must have… I don’t know, your parents?”

Sherlock shudders as he remembers his mother’s cloying hugs, her preference for shoulder pats and arm squeezes. It had taken her ages to stop doing that, realise that his annoyance was not just childish rebellion but genuine discomfort.

“John,” he says, after a moment of consideration. “John does hugs, sometimes.”

“Do you like it?” Moran asks, sounding fascinated.

“Not really. I don’t really dislike it, either. It just… it makes him happy, so why not.”

“Okay, fine.” Moran drops down, lying next to him. “Some people don’t like being touched, I get that. But, Christ, you were basically a purring cat, just now.”

“You’re different,” Sherlock says, closing his eyes.

There’s no reply. No mocking sneer, no joking comment, no stab at a weakness revealed. Nothing.

Sherlock cracks one eye open. Moran is looking rather spooked. “What?”

“It’s just… That’s something Jim used to say.” Moran rolls over, eyes on the ceiling.

Sherlock stays quiet, watching Moran, trying to curb his imagination.

“I’m still not used to it,” Moran mutters. “I still don’t _get it_ , how you can be so immensely different and then two second later you’re…”

_\- you’re me -_

“Is Moriarty this particular about touch?” Sherlock asks.

“Hm?” Moran turns his head. “Yeah, I suppose. Of course, most people are too terrified to even consider coming close to his personal bubble, but even when he’s in disguise he doesn’t like people being touchy. ‘Course, with his history, that’s hardly – ” He breaks off, suddenly.

“What?” Sherlock asks, sitting up. “What did you say?”

Moran shakes his head, face unreadable. “No.”

“His history, what about i- ”

“ _No_.”

Sherlock presses his lips together in frustration. “I never found anything about him, about his past. Nothing.”

“There’s a reason for it.” Moran sits up and takes his phone. “My source got back in touch, can meet us in about half an hour. We should get ready.”

“You’re – ”

“ _Sherlock_.”

Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut. He blinks.

For a second there, Moran had sounded almost exactly the same as Mycroft.

“Fine,” he says, rolling his eyes. “So. This source of yours…”

“Peter Mercer. Little weasel of a man.” Moran stuffs his phone in his back pocket, then puts his foot on the chair to check the knife he carries at his ankle. “Jim helped him get out of the UK a couple of years back, set up a new identity here. Not directly, of course, but the bloke’s smart enough to guess who’s behind his miraculous escape.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing that awful, really.” Moran shrugs. “He was just a small-time thief – a clever one, it tended to be the accountant-kind of theft. You know, making the numbers dance, a few thousand disappearing here and reappearing somewhere else…” He puts the knife back into his ankle holster and pulls his trousers down, then straightens up. “Went fine, until he ended up embezzling from someone a lot higher up the ladder than him. And he was found out.”

“So he commissioned Moriarty to help him out?”

Moran snorts. “Hardly. People don’t just _commission_ James Moriarty, like he’s some kind of struggling artist. Jim happened to be interested in something involving the guy our Peter was trying to flee from. Peter amused Jim; he was just clever enough to be interesting, and Jim liked the idea of pissing off the crime boss in question. So he got Peter out. Out of the goodness of his heart, really.”

Sherlock slowly shakes his head. “I really don’t understand. I thought Moriarty was a businessman, that he only thought in profit, but…”

“Oh, he is. A businessman, I mean. He’ll never do anything that goes directly against his interest. But this, well…” Moran shrugs. “Isn’t obvious? A mysterious disappearance, motive unknown, no one can work out how or what… And the name _Moriarty_ hanging around all that, nothing definite but just enough to make people pay attention. It’s reputation-building. A kind of profit all of its own, I suppose.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Sherlock says, frowning.

“Yeah, well. Maintaining a criminal network like that takes a lot of careful thought.”

“So why didn’t he kill Gruner? If he insulted Jim by not – ” And Sherlock stops, his mind catching up with his words and his stomach turning.

It just slipped out, without conscious thought, because it felt right, as if he has a right to be this familiar, and it’s..

Moran grins. “Don’t looks so glum,” he says cheerfully. “I reckon fucking someone’s partner puts you on first-name basis, don’t you?”

“On his hitlist, more likely,” Sherlock says, recovering.

“Doubt it.”

“Not the jealous type, Moriarty?”

“Oh, yeah, he is. Possessive though, more than jealous.” Moran gives Sherlock a smile. “But you’ve always been _special_.”

“I…” He shakes his head, irritated. “Yes, fine, whatever. Don’t we have work to do here?”

“Yeah, yeah, keep your knickers on.” Moran raises his eyebrow at Sherlock. “Or rather, put some on. Can’t go meeting sources bare-arsed, now, can we.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sherlock says, getting up from the bed. “It might startle them into being more honest than they would be in usual circumstances.”

“There’s a point,” Moran says, amused. “Though it takes a special kind of man to still be dignified when stark bollock naked.”

“Well, you did tell me I was _special_ ,” Sherlock says sarcastically as he goes to the bathroom.

“And you did look rather nice in a sheet,” Moran yells after him.

Sherlock almost trips over the threshold.

***

Peter turns out to be a ratty little man, sun-burnt and dressed in clothes at least one size too big, fingernails and teeth yellow with nicotine. He doesn’t really seem to be aware of who exactly Moran is, greeting him with casual friendliness. And for some reason Moran plays right along, pulling out his cigarettes and companionably sharing one with the man.

“So, who did you wanna know about Montalbán?” Peter asks, once he’s taken his first drag.

“What was he into again?” Moran asks.

Peter shrugs. “High-class stuff. You know, not even that illegal. White collar. Very hush hush.”

“Drugs?”

“Nah, like I said, nothing really illegal. Casinos, I think. Political stuff, too.”

“Big things,” Moran says, head tilted. “Must have stirred up something. Did he have permission for that?”

“Permission? From – oh, you mean _him_.”

“The Spider,” Moran says, with an oddly reverent expression.

“I heard he got caught. That he’s dead. Did you…”

“I heard, yeah, but – look, if we’re wrong. Do you really wanna risk it?”

“Point taken, point taken.” Peter takes another drag from his cigarette. “Dunno if our boy had permission. Don’t think so. And either way, in the week before he snuffed it, it got _real_ quiet around him. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah.” Moran mimes a gunshot. “Target set.”

“Yeah. Pissed off the wrong man. So, who the fuck knows, maybe it is him. Could be, could be.” He takes another puff, gives Moran a pointed look.

Moran hands him a wad of cash and claps him on the shoulder. “Ta, mate. Keep safe, now.”

“Been survivin’ this long.”

“By the grace of god.”

“God or the devil,” Peter says, with a flash of yellow teeth, and then he rushes off.

Moran keeps staring after him, and Sherlock watches, Moran's genial, friendly expression slides off his face, replaced by something cold, controlled, thoughtful - almost like another person is standing there all of a sudden. Then he turns his head, pale eyes meeting Sherlock's, and he raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“So that’s how it works,” Sherlock says.

“Well, that’s one part of it. But yeah. Jim only rarely show up as himself, but as someone else…” Moran shrugs.“ And same with me, sometimes. Less so than Jim, but still.”

“And that’s how you can influence the rumours.”

“And pick up any news floating around relatively quickly. Hiding in plain sight.” He tilts his head. “Come on, let's get back before it really starts getting hot.”

They leave the alley and go back to the main streets, Sherlock lost in thought.

It’s strange, to see Moran like this. Playacting, pretending to be someone he’s not, and rather effectively too. Of course it’s a habit for him, something he’s done often, so naturally he’s good at it, but…

It’s disconcerting, after spending all this time with the man, to realise there’s a whole other side to him. As it had been with Adler, watching Moran manoeuvre, negotiate, charm, all with finely honed skill… 

No wonder Moriarty kept him close.

Sherlock shakes his head, dislodging the thoughts. “So.”

“So,” Moran replies, drily. “Our guy overstepped.”

“He’s trustworthy? Peter?”

“For this? Yeah.” Moran shrugs. “No real reason for him to lie.”

“So it could be Moriarty.”

“Could be.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. It’s been more than a month since they had to leave Aragno behind and with it, any last trace of Moriarty's presence. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like, watching the patterns fall into shape and knowing, _knowing_ that Moriarty was behind it, engineering everything. Seeing his signature style, his touch...

“Could be,” Moran repeats, sounding awed.

Sherlock shakes his head. “So what now?”

“More research, I suppose,” Moran says with a small frown. “Now we know in what direction to look in, it might be easier to find something.”

“Politics?”

“And money laundering, which always leaves a trail. I’m hardly an expert, but I reckon I can find at least something to get us started. We can – ” He stops suddenly.

“What?”

Moran jerks his chin ahead. There are a few soldiers standing at the end of the street, along with a police officer or two. None of them look particularly keen; in fact, the overwhelming impression he gets off them is _boredom_.

“Terror attack a few months back,” Moran says quietly. “Increased security levels all around the city. But too long ago to really feel the urgency, I reckon.”

“But you still don’t want to pass them?”

“Cameras,” Moran says, with a small nod. “Probably hooked up to some recognition software. I’d rather not risk it.”

“Is there a way around?”

Moran gets out his phone and opens a map. “Alleyways, should work. Come on.”

They leave the main streets and go into a smaller street, then head into a back alley, almost entirely blocked with bins and other rubbish. They gingerly pick their way across, Moran still frowning at his phone. At the end of the alleyway, they come onto a fork.

“Which way?” Sherlock asks.

Moran tilts his phone. “Map doesn’t add up. Er, left?”

They follow the left alley, which briefly narrows, barely wide enough to let them pass side-by-side. Then it widens, but it’s still derelict, nothing but dirty crumbling brickwork, metal doors rusted closed, discarded condoms and a few syringes scattered around. The walls are high, graffiti-sprayed, reflecting the sound of their footsteps and –

Moran’s step briefly falters, at exactly the same moment as Sherlock notices.

Other footsteps.

Either they’re spectacularly stupid, not realising that in a street as deserted as this one any pursuers would stand out as a sore thumb, or…

“Shit,” Moran mutters under his breath as they turn a corner.

The far end is fenced off, too high to get over easily.

And, as they turn around, they’re faced with four men.

These definitely aren’t Mycroft’s men. Sherlock recognises thugs when he sees them, and whoever is pulling the strings of these four, their intentions are very different than those of the other pursuers they’ve already encountered.

Moran sighs, put-upon. “Really?” he asks, not giving off even a trace of fear.

One of them, presumably the leader, steps forwards. “Asking questions,” he says, in accented English. “Not a good idea.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I learned a lot.” He tilts his head. “And it’s not like _you_ are actually a problem, are you?”

“Are you sure of that?” The man grins wide.

“Pretty sure,” Moran says. “You don’t look that impressive, now, do you?”

“Pablo?”

The one behind the leader takes out a knife.

Four of them. Should be easy enough. Sherlock divides his weight, puts it on the balls of his feet. Moran changes position, subtly, opening his shoulders towards the men and putting his back to Sherlock.

“ _Apartaos_ ,” Moran says, and suddenly the sneering sarcasm, the grandstanding has disappeared. “ _No vale la pena. Seguid así y acabaréis muertos_.”

The leader smirks, but it looks a little uncertain. “ _No eres_ – ”

“ _¿Crees que esta es la primera vez que mato a alguien?"_

There’s a silence.

Sherlock can see the calculations behind the men’s eyes. They might be thugs but they’re experienced thugs, enough to correctly assess the threat value of someone, and Moran…

He doesn’t look frightened. He doesn’t even look tense. He looks weary, slightly annoyed, like this is a tiresome job he’s grown a bit sick off. And like he has absolutely no doubts about the outcome of this fight.

He’s probably right.

For a moment, it really looks like it might work. But then the leader drops into crouch and snarls something at his cronies and the next second Sherlock’s hand is clamped around someone’s arm, forcing the knife point away from his face.

He twists and pulls, putting his back and hip to the man’s midsection and flipping him over, landing him flat on his stomach. Sherlock has barely kicked the knife away from the man’s hand before someone else is on him, arm around his throat. Sherlock scrabbles behind him, breath squeezed out of him and black spots appearing before his eyes before he manages to make a jab at the man’s eyes. There’s a curse, the grip loosens, and Sherlock quickly spins around and knees the man in the stomach, then aims an uppercut at his chin. He folds down like a puppet with his strings cut.

But before Sherlock can even catch his breath, his throat still burning, a movement from the corner of his eye makes him turn. He raises his arm only just in time, knife scoring across his forearm instead of the back it had been aimed at.

Pain bursts from his wrist all the way up his shoulder. He staggers back, gasping for air, still reeling from the choke hold, and the knife rises and he’s slow, too slow, and –

And Moran shows up behind him, throwing his arm around the man’s neck and he raises his knee and puts it against the man’s back and _twists_.

There’s a dry snap and the man drops to the ground, head at an unnatural angle.

Sherlock slides down, back against the wall. His arm hurts like burning and his throat is on fire, and the adrenaline is still racing through his bloodstream. He tilts his head back, briefly closes his eyes, then opens them again. “Do you – ”

He stops.

Moran pulls the knife from one of the men’s stomach and looks down at Sherlock, a smear of blood across his face. “Are you hurt?” he asks, and the damned man is barely even out of breath.

“No,” Sherlock says. Then, “Yes, but it’s not serious.”

“Show me.”

Sherlock pulls back his sleeve and Moran crouches down next to him. He carefully takes Sherlock’s wrist and pulls gently, turning the wound towards him. Then he takes a clean handkerchief from his pocket and presses it against the wound. He reaches back briefly, rips a strip from the shirt of one of the men – the corpse, the one with the broken neck – and wraps it around the handkerchief.

“Hide it beneath your sleeve,” Moran says, examining the bandage. “We’re not that far from our place, as long as you avoid the police and the military you should be fine. Can you find the way?”

“Yes,” he says, breath still rasping. “But - ”

Behind them, one of them prone men groans. At least one still alive, then.

Moran stands up, knife in his hand. He looks down at the fallen man, head to one side. Considering.

“He’s down,” Sherlock says. “Leave him. What’s the point?”

“The point?” Moran repeats softly.

He raises his foot and then plants it down hard on the man’s hand. He screams, rolling to his side in a feeble attempt to get away.

“Do you really have to…”

Moran turns his head, watching Sherlock. “This is my fight,” he says, calmly. “You don’t get a say in how I deal with this. Now get out of here.”

“What?”

“You don’t need to see this.”

“You think I’m _squeamish_?” Sherlock sneers.

“No-o, I think you shouldn’t get involved in this.”

“Aren’t I already?” He struggles up. “What are you going to do with them?”

“Go, Sherlock,” Moran says, turning back to the man who’s currently curled around his crushed hand. “Straight to our room, don’t risk anything.”

“I’m –”

“ _Go_.”

Sherlock briefly hesitates.

Then he turns on his heel and leaves the alley, a groan behind him suddenly cut off into another muffled scream.

***

Sherlock knows death.

It doesn’t particularly scare him, neither his own nor others’. He’s killed a few people in his time, after all, as Moran likes to remind him. Accidents, or self-defense, where a situation came to a clear simple kill-or-be-killed. If you run in the kind of circles Sherlock does, violence is unavoidable; you can't get involved in the criminal world without being prepared to get your hands dirty.

_\- none of us have clean hands, here -_

But that doesn't mean he's a murderer. He never killed for any other reason, not out of greed or sadism or profit or any other motive he sees time and time again in the cases he investigates. And that's what makes the difference between him and people like Moran and Moriarty.

At least, that’s what he used to think.

He rubs his forehead. Moran’s violence, the torture and death, should have been a brutal reminder of what the man really is: a villain, a criminal, a _bad guy_ , to put it simply. And yet…Right now, he doesn't feel anything but a mild sense of admiration for Moran's neat handling of a dirty job. Given the circumstances, letting those men run free would be disastrous, and handing them in to the police would only expose themselves. Even the violence of it has a logic behind it, now he considers it - sending a warning, a threat to others. Ruthless, yes, brutal, but effecient, exactly the way pragmatic, sensible Moran solves his problems. It all seems perfectly sensible.

Is it just his perception changing, now he's seeing matters from the inside? Or is it him that's changing, rules and principles he used to value suddenly seeming childish, simplistic, irrelevant...

The door opens and Sherlock veers up, Moran’s gun in his hands, just in case.

But it’s just Moran himself. He pauses in the doorway, gives the gun an ironic look, then closes the door behind him.

“What did you do to them exactly?” Sherlock asks.

“You don't need to know the details. It was grisly, that's all.” Moran pulls off his shirt and throws it carelessly to the corner. Beneath his, his chest is streaked with blood and scratches. “Told you. I still have a job to do.”

“Keeping Moriarty’s name alive,” Sherlock says.

“Something like it, yeah. And it’s two birds with one stone. With a bit of luck, this’ll loosen up some of the information, might give us a hints.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking tired all of a sudden. “Don’t start giving me shit about this. I promised not to touch anyone we didn’t know but this – ”

“I don’t mind.”

Moran’s hand drops. “No?” he asks, clearly surprised.

“I – ” And he briefly considers saying _yes_ , _I do care_ – except that would be a lie, wouldn’t it? “No.”

“Huh. Well. That certainly makes things easier.” Moran’s hands go to his waistband and he walks off to the bathroom. “I’m gonna shower this filth off me, be with you in a minute.”

“Of course.”

Moran closes the bathroom door behind him.

Sherlock leans his shoulder against the window. He crosses his arms, looks out, thoughts drifting.

Maybe he should've lied to Moran, keep up the appearance of shock and disapproval. But... 

But that's the whole point, that he doesn't have to lie to Moran. That he can say what he thinks, what he feels, and never be met by judgement or disapproval. Moran might be amoral and ruthless, but that’s exactly the reason why Sherlock feels… accepted by him, strange as it sounds. No matter what he says, what he does, Moran never looks at him with the disgust or bafflement he's grown so used to. Ever.

So what does that make him?

_\- there are lives at stake, do you care about that at all -_

But he hadn’t, not then, not now. Even when people kept insisting that's what he _should_ do, and he tried, genuinely, but it never really...

Moran may be right; in the end, he’s not that different.

_\- you’re me –_

He rests his forehead against the cool glass. He hadn’t believed Moriarty, then. He’d been so convinced of his own rightness. Now… What would he do, if Moriarty were right here before him? Could he reject him just as easily as before?

He shudders at the thought. Not in disgust, not anymore, more excitement and anticipation and –

And desire, if Moran is to believed.

“You’re looking thoughtful.”

Sherlock raises his head from the window and looks at Moran. “Just… considering. Some of the things you’ve said.”

Moran raises his eyebrows. “I’m surprised. Didn’t think you’d consider my words worth remembering.”

“You have your moments.”

Moran snorts. “Yeah, right. Now come here, I need to have a look at that arm.”

Sherlock goes over and sits down on the bed, holding out his arm. Moran kneels down in front of him, first aid kit open on the carpet. He carefully peels the makeshift bandage back from Sherlock’s arm, then makes a small sound when the wound is laid bare.

Sherlock gives it a look as well. Doesn’t look pretty, but he’s had worse.

Moran carefully dips a washcloth into a bowl of water, then starts cleaning the wound. “It’s not that bad,” he says, frowning in concentration.

“Yes, I kno- _ow_.”

“Sorry.” Moran shoots him a quick glance. “I’m trying to be careful here, but there’s a bit of grit that needs to go first.”

“I know.” He tilts his head back as Moran continues working on his arm. He’s good, precise, thorough. His sniper-training, probably, giving him steady hands. Still, there are sharp shots of pain as he picks at the wound. Which should probably registering as _annoying_ rather than…

Sherlock takes a deep breath, steadying himself. It’s almost hypnotising, watching Moran, the frown of concentration, the slow precision of his movements, the focus of it, and all the while Sherlock is sitting here, doing nothing, watching him…

“There,” Moran says, putting his pincer down with a clink in the bowl of water. “Hold out your arm, I still need to bandage it.”

Sherlock nods and obeys, feeling a bit light-headed. Moran is being careful but he still needs to touch the wound and there it is, another quicksilver flicker of pain and Sherlock breathes in, his cock pressing against his jeans, eyes skipping from Moran’s still-concentrated face to his chest, bare, clean now, still a few scratches showing. Left by other people, this time.

“Sherlock?”

He looks up. Moran is staring at him, head tilted. His hand is still around Sherlock’s arm.

“Do that again,” he says, his voice thick.

“Do…” Moran trails off, the confusion disappearing. He adjusts his hold, fingertips resting on the gash through the bandage, and he increases pressure, just a little.

It both clears his head and intensifies the longing. He licks his lips, and Moran’s pupils dilate and, yes. This.

“Are you – ”

He grabs Moran by the neck and hauls him into a kiss.

Moran moves as if he’s trying to break away and something inside Sherlock rebels against that, so he keeps hold of Moran, pushes, and then they’re both toppling to the floor, Sherlock landing astride him. He bends down immediately.

“Careful,” Moran gasps between kisses.

Sherlock pulls back a little, raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“I meant you, you twat,” Moran says, and the way his breath catches around the words goes straight to Sherlock's cock. “Your arm.”

“It’ll survive,” Sherlock says impatiently.

“Idiot,” Moran says, and he grabs Sherlock by his good arm and pulls him around so he’s the one with his back on the floor, and for all that it is a thrill to have the upper hand, this, Moran taking charge like that…

It’s still something else.

Sherlock digs his fingers into the side of Moran’s neck and kisses him heatedly. Moran bites at his bottom lip, sharp, then nudges Sherlock’s jaw with his nose. Sherlock tilts his head back and Moran sucks hard on a point just above his jugular, and he thrusts his hips up, desperate for some kind of friction.

He tangles his fingers in Moran’s hair and pulls him back up. Moran presses a hard kiss against his mouth, then moves away a little, hands pulling at his waistband and, yes, but also –

“The other way around,” Sherlock gasps out.

“What?” Moran asks, surprised.

“Me. I want you to do me.”

Moran leans back a little, raises his eyebrow. “Sudden craving?”

“I’m surprised I even have to ask,” Sherlock says, feigning a cockiness he doesn’t feel. “I thought you’d jump on the opportunity.”

“To fuck you?”

“To debauch me.”

Moran snorts. “I think my work there is well and truly done, by now.”

“It just – seems like the only thing you haven’t done yet,” Sherlock says, and Moran’s arms are still leaning on the floor next to his face, his legs on either side of his hips, trapping him against the floor, and his stomach is doing somersaults.

Moran gives him an amused look. “Curious, are you?”

“I don’t see any reason not to.”

“No?” Moran shrugs. “It isn’t very, well, _nice_ , generally speaking. The first time. It takes some getting used to.”

“You seemed to enjoy it.”

“I’m _very_ used to it.”

“Then get me used to it.”

Moran watches him for a moment. Sherlock lifts his chin, meets Moran’s stare dead-on. Amusement flickers over Moran’s face again, like it often does when Sherlock puts his foot down.

“Fine,” Moran says with an explosive sigh, and he rolls off Sherlock. “Clothes off and on your back.”

Sherlock blinks, disoriented by the sudden lack of touch. “What? Why?”

“Because I tell you to.”

“No, I mean – ” He gets up, zips his shorts open and shoves them down his hips. “Why on my back? Isn’t easier – ”

“It is,” Moran says. “Technically. But I’m gonna need to see your face.”

“Why?” Sherlock asks suspiciously.

“Gauging your reactions.”

“Oh.”

Moran smiles. Sherlock pulls his shirt over his head, handily hiding him from Moran’s mocking eyes.

It isn’t that he really minds, being this – well, _intimate_ with Moran. He’s got used to it. He knows Moran reads his reactions, he knows he’s being watched when they have sex. But this…

It sounds like a vulnerability a couple of categories deeper.

He drops his shirt to the floor and sits down on the bed, naked, leaning back on his elbows. Moran puts his hands on the top of the footboard and just… watches him.

“You know some people have very outspoken preferences about this sort of thing,” Moran says, after a few moments.

“Tops or bottoms.”

“Yeah. Never saw the appeal of exclusivity myself, but it’s perfectly fine to have preferences.”

“How would I know what I prefer if I haven’t even experienced both sides yet,” Sherlock says, annoyed.

Another glimmer of that dark amusement crosses Moran’s face.

“Didn’t you say it yourself?” Sherlock presses on. “It isn’t necessarily about submission. Anything can be about submission.”

“It can be.” He spreads his arms a little wider, eyes still fixed on Sherlock, and Sherlock’s stomach gives a little flip. “But I’m not going to let you have this one.”

Sherlock’s throat goes dry. He swallows, licks his lips. “If I could be on top…”

“You’d have a bit more control, yeah. But I don’t trust you to keep it together.” He straightens up and pulls his belt buckle loose, and Sherlock watches him undress with those words hammering against the back of his head _keep it together keep it together_ and maybe, maybe he overreached a little here.

But when did he last back out of a challenge?

Moran puts his knee on the bed. Sherlock fights his initial impulse to back away, but the man looks like a damn predator.

Then Moran grins, and says, “You look like a cornered rabbit.”

Sherlock shakes his head, more surprise at the shared line of thought rather than denial, but Moran seems to take it differently. He sighs and runs his hand through his hair.

“Look,” he says, with a strange kind of paternal patience, “there’s no shame in not wanting to do this. It’s not obligatory. And you shouldn’t feel bad about backing out either – sex is supposed to be about making yourself and your partner feel good, and if it’s not doing that, why fucking bother?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t want to back out.”

Moran watches him for a moment. Then he shrugs. “Well, if you change your mind at any point, let me know.”

“Since when do you need me to _tell_ you anything like that?” Sherlock asks, half mocking.

“True.” Moran snags the lube from the bedside table, then sits crosslegged at the end of the bed. “Now put a pillow under your arse and open your legs.”

Sherlock complies, mouth dry as he watches Moran lube up his hand. “No gloves?” Sherlock asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Nope. Messes with my tactile input.” He gives Sherlock a wry look. “I kinda want to get all the details for this.”

“Right.” Sherlock breathes in deeply, then steels himself and opens his legs, putting his heel on the other side of Moran.

Moran runs an appreciative hand up Sherlock’s thigh, then suddenly bends down and before Sherlock can fully process what’s happening Moran’s mouth is on Sherlock’s cock.

The shock of the sudden contact combined with the anticipation and the lust from before is enough to make him yelp and almost kick Moran off, but Moran keeps him down effortlessly.

 _Preparing the way_ , some part of his mind supplies. _An attempt at making me relax_. But knowing why something is happening doesn’t mean he can just ignore it – and it’s stupid, because this is hardly the first time Moran has gone down on him, he shouldn’t be that affected by it anymore, but something about the situation and the promise of things still going to happen has him grasping at the sheets and mouthing curses in no time.

Moran pulls off with a wet little noise, then thoughtfully licks the tip of Sherlock’s cock at the same time as he rubs his thumb against the skin underneath his balls.

“This really would be better if I had a plug of some sort,” Moran murmurs.

Sherlock blinks. “A… what?”

“Butt plug,” Moran clarifies, with a pitying look. “Easier to make the transition. But I doubt you have the patience to wait another day until I find us a sex shop somewhere? No? Thought as much.”

“Just…” Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. “Just do it.”

“In time,” Moran says, completely unconcerned, and then his lips slide down around Sherlock’s cock again.

It’s hard to keep track of everything that’s happening. Moran is good at this, and each time Sherlock has got something narrowed down like the precise location and pressure of a touch of his fingers, a hard suck or a touch of teeth will draw all of his attention back to his cock. Nevertheless, he’s aware of the pressure building, a need for something undefined intensifying. Wanting something even when he’s never had it before, much like his first time.

Moran pulls off again. He still hasn’t actually penetrated, even though his fingers have been busy all the while, stroking and massaging.

Then, finally, there’s pressure, the tip of a finger pushing, edging in – then immediately pulling out again.

Sherlock drops his head back to the pillow and closes his eyes. “You’re drawing this out on purpose, aren’t you?”

“What purpose?” Moran asks conversationally.

“To see me – ” _Desperate. Broken. Debased. “_ \- like this,” he finishes.

“Darling, I’ve seen you _like this_ plenty of time before,” Moran says. There’s another wet noise and Sherlock opens his eyes just in time to see Moran put a bottle of lube back on the bedside table, and then he’s pushing in for real.

Sherlock breathes in deeply at the sudden – invasion, there’s no other word for it, something being somewhere it isn’t supposed to be. Which is absurd, just a stupid reductive idea that doesn’t have any relevance, there’s nothing more unnatural about this than having Moran’s cock in his mouth, and he never minded that. Still, there’s something about this…

Moran twists his fingers, pressing deeper, and the vague unpleasantness of it tips over into actual discomfort. Sherlock clenches his teeth, then manages to grind out, “Go slow.”

“Well, yeah, obviously,” Moran says, a sarcastic slant to the words. He flashes a grin at Sherlock, dangerous and wild, and –

And something inside of him suddenly goes tight in not-quite fear.

He’s at Moran’s mercy here.

Moran is being careful and attentive but if he at one point he’s had enough of that, if he grows tired of indulging Sherlock’s sensitivities, there isn’t much he can do to stop him. Moran is a better fighter than him, better trained, heavier, stronger, and he knows Sherlock’s weak points and it doesn’t even need to come to a fight or violence, not with how his vision is already swimming just because of his touch.

“You’re panicking,” Moran says, somewhere above him, low and cruel.

A hand closes around Sherlock’s throat and he opens his eyes, disoriented.

“Stop it,” Moran says.

“You knew this was going to happen,” Sherlock says, edges of his words blurry and imprecise.

“It was bound to happen someday.” And Moran leans down, hand sliding to the back of Sherlock’s neck and they’re kissing and despite the overwhelming – _something_ , this, well, this is familiar.

And even when Moran pushes his fingers deeper and Sherlock’s breath catches, it…

“Give in,” Moran growls in his ear.

Sherlock arches his back, breathes out long and slow and wills himself to relax into the ever-increasing pressure, the steady slide in and out. For a moment, everything goes away, and then Moran’s fingers return, fingers slick and cold, making the careful press in easier.

And when Sherlock finally opens his eyes again, Moran has got four fingers in up to the knuckle, leaving him without any feeling but a mild warmth.

“Oh,” Sherlock says, breathless.

“Told you I’d take my time,” Moran says. “You’re good? Had enough?”

“I… I think so.” Sherlock shakes his head, suddenly irritated. “How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

“Just giving you an opportunity for input,” Moran says, unflappable as always. He pulls his fingers back and hooks his elbows beneath Sherlock knees, then leans forward. And then he stops, as if he catches Sherlock’s hesitation. “This okay?”

Sherlock has always been flexible, and this doesn’t even give him a twinge, that isn’t the problem. Rather it’s this strange sense of vulnerability, of baring himself – which _again_ , is stupid, senseless, Moran has seen him naked and in countless revealing positions before, why the hell should he suddenly mind it?

“Stop fighting,” Moran says, voice so soft it slips in the middle of Sherlock’s thoughts like it’s one of his own. It’s still what he’s doing, fighting, resisting, some small part of him that hates the thought of giving the reins to Moran, because…

Because he’s afraid.

Sherlock almost rolls his eyes at himself. Instead, he puts his hands on the back of his thighs and pulls them closer to his torso.

Moran cocks his head. “Are you sure?” he asks, expression serious. “If it’s easier for you on all fours…”

“And not see you?” Sherlock says, out before he can stop it. But the thought of turning his back to Moran, of being blind to everything he does, he plans… That’s a very definite no.

“Fine,” Moran says, with a flicker of a smile, and then he lets go of Sherlock’s leg, hand going to his cock, and he leans forward and there’s pressure and -

It does hurt. It hurts, in a way that even drowns out the rest, but backing out now is just going to make it more difficult afterwards to get back to this point and he –

_\- give in -_

He breathes out again, slow and controlled. Relax. He lets himself melt into the mattress, forcing the tension out of his arms, his neck, and he only realises just how tense his thigh muscles are the moment he lets go, letting Moran bear their weight.

“Good,” Moran says, somewhere close. It’s nice, that approval. Reassuring. He breathes in, breathes out again, and like before it gets easier with every breath, every little out-back-in, and Moran must be almost entirely inside of him and this is easy, this is –

“ _Fuck_.” Pain. Even deeper, more, but how?

Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he stares, half in shock, to see Moran’s barely an inch or two in, if he gets the measuring right, meaning…

“Slow,” Moran says, his hand rubbing over Sherlock’s thigh. “There’s no rush here.”

_\- no rush, his voice comes over the recorded security tape and –_

Sherlock forcibly pushes that thought back to where it came from and returns to breathing, calm, even though it’s hard because this is a lot more difficult than he’d thought, a lot more difficult than it ever seemed with Moran.

“How do you…” Sherlock mumbles, “how do you ever…”

“Like I said, it gets easier over time.” Moran’s hand slides higher on Sherlock’s thigh. “You can look now,” he adds, a wry note of amusement in his voice.

Sherlock peeks down cautiously. “It’s…”

“Yeah. Worst part is over.”

He sighs and sinks back into the pillows, then jolts when there’s suddenly a firm grip on his cock, which has gone limp again.

Moran slowly pumps his hand up and down, not moving anywhere else. It’s good, gives him time to adjust; he feels oddly _full_ , forced open, and there’s still something of a burn on the edges of all of it, the warm aftermath of real pain, but that’s…

Well, he’s realised before that he doesn’t really mind that.

Moran slowly starts pulling back, hand still on Sherlock’s cock. When he pushes in there’s more pain, but he’s hard again too and it mixes together, and it’s, it’s good.

When the pain of it begins to fade, Moran pulls back his hand, giving Sherlock nothing to focus on but the drag of Moran’s cock inside of him, the slow deliberate thrusts. It still isn’t pleasurable the way all the other things have always been with Moran, but there’s something about it, especially once or twice when the angle changes, when Moran presses harder onto his legs and there’s this spark of something, a little like when he sucks on just the head of Sherlock’s cock but strange, less focused.

Still. It’s good. And Moran is speeding up now, and Sherlock is still hard and Moran’s hand comes back, expertly jerking him off in time with each thrust and -

Sherlock bites his lip hard as he comes, clenching down reflexively but Moran’s cock is still inside and he’s being fucked, can’t escape this, the pleasure rolling over him in a wave, followed by shivering aftershocks.

Moran suddenly pulls out, leaving Sherlock with an oddly empty feeling. He’s vaguely aware of Moran desperately tugging at his own cock a few times, the sag as he comes as well, but it’s all rather unimportant.

He’s aching.

Moran drops down next to him, breathing hard. “ _Christ_ you’re hard work.”

Sherlock tries to reply but all that comes it out is a whiny groan. Moran laughs, completely ignoring Sherlock’s answering scowl.

“I,” Moran says, still grinning, “am going to take another shower. Because I’m filthy. And you should probably follow my example, unless you want to wake up in the morning with my dried come on your thighs.”

Sherlock scrunches up his nose. “’s disgusting.”

“That’s sex. All bodily fluids and awkward positions and muscle cramps afterwards. Makes you consider why we bother with it, really.” He looks down fondly at Sherlock. “Or not. Can you speak?”

He huffs.

“Right. You go and nap, darling.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, letting his mind drift, sleep close but not quite within reach.

The shower runs in the background. Moran washing Sherlock off him.

The aftermath is… interesting. He’s used to some of these things, by now, more or less: the aching muscles, the stickiness, the pleasant exhaustion. The pain is mostly new, though – although pain isn’t the right word, really. The ghost of pain. Memory of it. It’s… nice. Warm.

The shower-sounds stop. Sherlock opens his eyes again, sits up a little, his thighs protesting. He blinks, looking around, letting his eyes adjust again. His eyes fall to the sheets, and he frowns.

In the faint shine of the afternoon sun everything looks rusty red, but that’s definitely blood.

“Don’t worry,” Moran says, lazily and relaxed, from the doorway. “That happens.”

“Are you…” He pauses.

Moran raises his eyebrows. “Don’t you think it’s a little late to start worrying about STI’s?” he asks, half disbelieving and half mocking.

Sherlock shrugs. “I’m the ex-addict, I’d think you should be the worried one.”

“Nah.” He crosses the room and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Jim had files on _everything._ I’m pretty sure somewhere is a folder with a copy of every prescription you ever got. I’d know if you were carrying anything.” He stretches, then grins at Sherlock. “I even know about the pepper incident.”

“I was _nine_.”

“A very precocious nine, apparently.” His grin broadens.

“What about you?” Sherlock asks sharply. “With all the sleeping around you’ve done…”

“Safe,” Moran says, with a little handwave. “Well, on the STI-account, anyways.”

“Hm. Well. Good to know, I suppose.”

Moran barks a laugh, then reaches for his cigarettes on the bedside table. He pulls out just the one and ignores Sherlock’s imperiously outstretched hand. “Don’t trust your muscle control yet,” he says as he lights up. “You may end up setting fire to the bed, and I did just disable the smoke detectors.”

Sherlock makes an insulted noise, but Moran only laughs again. Sherlock closes his eyes. His arse is still hurting.

“How did you find out you were a masochist?” he asks, on impulse.

“Hm?” Moran looks at him. “Oh, god knows. I suppose I always sort of knew, but it wasn’t until Jim that I really got it.” He gives Sherlock a small smile. “When did _you_ find out?”

“Just now.” He raises his arm, looks at the traces of blood soaking through his bandage. “Apparently.”

Moran takes a drag on his cigarette, blows out smoke, then says, “Well, if you wanna experiment further, let me know.”

“With _you_?”

He grins, not looking at Sherlock. “Who else are you going to find?”

For a few confusing, fleeting seconds Sherlock considers John, John, who’s emphatically not gay, John, who’s a soldier and who knows how to fight and…

But no. He’s fairly certain John’s inclinations don’t lie that way – or, at least, if they do, that he’s conflicted about it at best and in denial at worst.

And anyway, he’s not about to see John anytime soon, now, is he?

He glances up at Moran, who’s still smiling, eyes closed, radiating smugness. “Sadist as well, then, are you?” Sherlock mutters.

“Well, _obviously_. You only realised that now?”

“I just thought you were taking revenge. The handcuffs, the shared beds...” He frowns. “Was it about sex?”

“Nah, not then.” Moran opens his eyes again. “But it’s the same impulse, in essence. Although I imagine that doesn’t make much sense, unless you happen to feel the same way.” Moran side-eyes him. “So. Do you?”

“I…”

For a moment he almost says _yes_. But then he remembers the Serbian prison, the chains digging into his wrists and his mind spinning without any way of stopping it, directing it, and he remembers that one moment of bone-deep panic, just now, and the idea of loss of control that completely, with Moran near…

“I don’t think so,” he says. “Not to that extent, anyway.”

Moran cocks his head, watching Sherlock very closely for a few seconds. “Doesn’t have to be the full chains-and-whips right away, you know,” he says, in a quiet careful tone that’s almost gentle. “There’s a lot of ways this stuff can intersect with other things. It’s a… a spectrum, not a line.”

Sherlock stares at the ceiling, thinking it through. Remembers Moran, writhing and cursing as Sherlock has his lips around Moran’s cock. Remembers Moran’s teeth in his throat, biting down hard enough that it left a mark for days, the burn of it combined with the rest. And he imagines, too, imagines Moran fucking him harder, rougher than he just did, imagines the same but with the roles reversed…

“How tired are you?” Sherlock asks.

“Not that tired. Why?” Moran raises his eyebrow, then follows Sherlock’s gaze. His mouth twitches up. “What, _again_?”

“Why not? It’s still too hot to go out anyway.” He tilts his head. “Or aren’t you up to it?”

Moran’s look darkens and he reaches over, stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray without taking his eyes away from Sherlock. “Am I up to it?” he repeats, low, dangerous.

Sherlock’s stomach gives a flip.

“Guess,” Moran growls.

And he pounces.

***

The sun has finally started to set by the time Sherlock finally has his sorely-needed shower.

There are deep scratches on his back and his thighs ache like mad, the muscles of his arms and shoulders are burning as well, and he’s fairly sure there isn’t one body part left that doesn’t have at least several bruises on it.

And he feels peaceful.

The brunt of it has already faded but he can still feel the aftertaste, a calm languid quiet that not even heroin has ever given him. In a way, it feels deeply unfair that he’d had to wait this long before finding out the existence of this… state; on the other hand, he still can’t imagine doing this with anyone else, can't think of anyone who would understand enough to...

Except –

And he can’t even finish the thought. Even now, something inside of him baulks at the idea of Moriarty and him, together like that. The image sears briefly through his mind but then it’s gone, like his imagination just gives up.

He rubs his hair dry and pulls his shirt on, then goes back into the main room, frowning.

Moran is sitting at the small corner desk near the window, wearing only a sleeveless undershirt, cigarette firmly between his teeth as he fiddles with a new pair of fake ID’s.

It’s fiddly work, Sherlock knows from experience, but Moran seems to have a knack for it. He’s quicker about it than even Sherlock ever was, handling the penknife with practiced elegant ease.

“Sniper,” Moran says around his cigarette, as if he can feel Sherlock’s thoughts. “Comes with steady hands.”

Sherlock hums, watching Moran’s hand work, his lips close around the tip of the cigarette.

Moran’s mouth quirks up into a smile, even though he’s still not looking up. “Bloody insatiable, you are. Making up for lost time?”

“Possibly, although I doubt libido works that way.”

“Dunno.” Moran stubs his cigarette out on the desk and goes back to his fiddling. “Jim was much the same, actually. Hadn’t had sex in a long while before he had me, but once he did… Think we averaged out at about two times a day, easily.”

 _That_ , at least, is something his imagination has no trouble with, judging by his mind conjuring up the images of Moran and Moriarty together, in bed, Moriarty on top like Moran has been, using him mercilessly, or –

“How do we compare?”

Moran looks up and blinks, surprised. “I’m sorry?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it again. That thought hadn’t really been meant for speaking, but there it is, now. Words hanging in the air between them.

“How do we compare,” Sherlock repeats. “Ji- Moriarty and me.”

“When it comes to your sex drive?” Moran asks, still puzzled.

“No,” Sherlock says, impatient and already regretting speaking up, “just… when it comes to sex in general.”

Moran keeps staring at him and he can feel his cheeks heat up.

“You’re asking if you’re as good as him?” Moran asks after a moment, laughter breaking through in his voice.

Sherlock huffs and turns, facing the window, his back to Moran.

“You’re not, in case you’re wondering,” Moran says gleefully.

His mouth twists as he tries to fight the stab to his ego. Doesn’t matter, only logical, doesn’t mean anything…

“Oh, come on.” There’s a _clink_ as Moran puts his tools down, a scrape as he pushes his chair back. “I’m being unfair. Jim had already plenty of experience before I came along, it isn’t a very good comparison. And you’re not half as shit as I expected you to be.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, sarcastically.

“Don’t sulk. It’s not like you could actually be like him, even if you did have the experience. He’s – ”

“First you keep telling me how wrong I am, for believing I’m different than Moriarty,” Sherlock says, annoyed, “and now I’m an idiot for thinking we can be similar after all?”

Moran sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just that he’s – I – ”

“Yes, yes, _there are no words_ ,” Sherlock sneers. “You’ve told me before.”

“Does it matter that much to you, then?” Moran asks, and there’s a sharpness in his tone now, an agression of a kind that reminds him of their first days together. “When all you want to do is _lock him up_?”

Sherlock glares at him in frustration, but stays quiet – that’s exactly the point, isn’t it, that he’s got no reply to that?

“Don’t worry,” Moran continues. “Once we find him you won’t have to just _imagine_ anymore.”

He shivers, despite himself, and something in the way Moran smiles when he sees that is absolutely infuriating.

“Assuming I’ll ever let it get that far,” Sherlock says.

Moran raises his eyebrows. “Changed your tune, haven’t you?”

“As long as you realise that _I’m_ the one who gets to decide.”

“Sorry?” Moran says, surprise and cruel mockery mixing together.

“You’d be nowhere without me, still stuck in a basement in Lausanne, hoping for your _master_ to come back. If we find him it will be because of me.” He licks his lips, then adds, “and it’ll be me he’ll be interested in.”

“Oh, really?”

“You said it yourself: he’s obsessed with me. Whereas you – ” He pauses, sees something flicker in Moran’s face, then takes the jump; “You’re just the guard dog.”

The amusement fades from Moran’s face. “You think you’re on his level just because we’ve fucked a few times, because you stepped back and let some inconsequential thugs die?” His lip curls in disgust. “You’re a child, compared to him.”

“And yet, you’re dependent on me,” Sherlock sneers. “It must tear you up, mustn’t it, that you can’t solve this alone? That you’re _failing – ”_

Moran stands up abruptly, chair clattering to the floor. “Watch it,” he snarls.

“Or what?” Sherlock says, mocking. “You’ll kill me?”

“No,” he says, and now there’s something cold about him, “I’ll just watch while Jim does it for me.”

“He didn’t manage it before,” Sherlock says, “and I doubt he will next time. He doesn’t want me dead, does he, your precious boss – ”

“Maybe not, maybe we’ll just get one of your little friends and – ”

“You _won’t touch them_.”

Moran smirks. “You really need to make up whose side you’re on here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it again. “My own’s,” he says, coldly, then turns and strides to the door.

“Where the _fuck_ are you go-”

“None of your fucking business,” Sherlock snaps back, then slams the door closed before he can hear Moran’s reply.

***

The church bells chime ten o’clock.

Sherlock glances up, unseeing, at the bell tower. He feels nauseous, now the anger has faded.

 _\- whose side are you on_ -

The truth of it is that he’s been enjoying himself. Genuinely. The thrill of the chase, the work of deciphering, the sex, and even Moran’s company. He hasn’t felt this way since the first days with John, but even there he'd felt reserve, the certainty that there were certain parts of him he couldn’t show, couldn't give in to, because John wouldn't approve. While here...

There's no reserve here. He can be who he wants to be. And apparently that's someone who has no qualms about leaving several people to a certain and painful death. He didn't feel any guilt, any hesitation, any regret - should he really have tried to save men who would gladly have cut his throat? And yet, he _knows_...

John would detest him for thinking like this. Molly would be shocked by his ruthlessness. Mycroft…

Mycroft probably would have him locked up again.

He sits down on a bench on a tourist-filled plaza and runs his hands over his face, stomach still turning. The thought of anything happening to them still horrifies them. That isn’t going to go away, no matter how far he drifts here. But even just thinking of them, of how he was with them, of how they were with him…

How can he reconcile that with everything he’s done here?

He tilts his head back, welcoming the cool night air on his face. Thinking - or trying to think, at least. 

He shouldn’t be doing this. The painfully obvious truth, the warning knocking ever more insistently at the insides of his mind: he _shouldn’t be doing this_. And yet he does. The idea of leaving this behind and going back to them makes the blood freeze in his veins. He _likes_ being here.

And he’s starting to realise why that is, too. The confusing jumble of emotions, the fear and curiosity, the fascination and the desire, drawing him in as inexorably as magnetism…

Of course he can’t let the thought of Moriarty go. It would be like giving up on breathing.

“If you’re not careful you’re going to end up in the background of a tourist’s snapshot,” a sardonic voice comes from above.

“I’m impressed,” Sherlock says dryly. “All those threats that _if I run,_ _you’ll find me_... Not just idle threats, are they?”

Moran sits down next to him. “Like I told you, I’m a - ”

“- specialist,” Sherlock finishes. He holds out his hand. “Fag.”

“Pot, kettle,”  Moran says jokingly, but he gets out his packet and taps out two cigarettes. He lights them both, movements quick and practised and lips tight around the paper, then hands one of them over.

Sherlock takes a deep drag, blowing out smoke through his nose, relishing the calming wave of nicotine creeping through his system.

“I’m not going to say _I didn’t mean any of that_ ,” Moran says, dryly. “Except maybe the bit about him killing you.”

“Yes, I did think that was unusually stupid of you.”

“Thanks.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Moran’s head tilt, watching him curiously.

“It’s not like I wasn’t aware of all this,” Sherlock says, after a moment. “But I hadn’t really considered…”

“Your friends?”

“I don’t know why. It … snapped me back. Realising what they’d think of me. How they would see all that I’m doing here, and what I’m doing it for.” He takes a deep drag, blows out the smoke.

“They say that it’s the people we surround ourselves with who make us who we are,” Moran says. “Considered like that, it makes perfect sense that you’re… _different_ than you were three years ago. That you think differently, have different values.”

“You’re contagious, is that what you’re saying?” Sherlock looks up at Moran, who shrugs in response.

“Or just someone showing you the way.”

“Different…” He leans back against the bench. “Yes, fine, but not just _different_. More like _me_. That’s what it feels like: as if there are all these layers, masks, that I’ve had to put up for the sake of other people, and beneath it there’s – this. Something ruthless.”

“Not something new, though. Something that was always there.”

“Something that wasn’t allowed to the surface.” He taps ash off his cigarette. “With good reason, probably.”

“Too late to force it back down now, though.”

“Yes.”

There’s a silence. Sherlock watches the smoke drifting from Moran’s cigarette. Somewhere far away, a single late bell tolls the hour again.

“This isn’t easy for me, you know,” Moran says suddenly.

Sherlock side-eyes him.

“Everything I do, everything I tell you… I keep wondering if I’m going against his orders, if I’m being disloyal. One moment I’m convinced he wouldn’t mind, that at the most he’d be amused at you knowing all this. And then I remember all the times he made me swear to be careful, everything he did to keep me unknown, safe, hidden, and it’s – this is the complete fucking opposite of that, and if that’s true, then…” He pauses, takes a deep drag of his cigarette. “Then I might as well jump off that tower there myself, right now,” he finishes.

Sherlock tilts his head, runs his eyes over Moran. He’s never seen this kind of doubt in him – depression, once or twice, the gloominess that showed up when he started thinking they’d never find what Moriarty left for him, but towards Sherlock, towards what they’re doing? He always seemed so confident, so sure of himself.

He doesn’t lie, Moran, but he knows how to hide the truth.

“I don’t know,” Moran says. “But either way, I’ve made my choice. Die cast, and all that.” He glances at Sherlock. “And from where I’m standing, you passed that point when you came back to find me in Berlin.”

“Before. When I agreed to help you out.” Sherlock tilts his head back again, stares into the North Star. “I decided to take the case. I could’ve approached it differently, could have tried to manipulate you, throw you off the scent, but I accepted. I wanted to know.” He huffs. “Well, now I do.”

“Not yet, though.” Moran slaps his knee, then rights himself. “Gotta find him first. And speaking of…”

“The murder.” Sherlock gets up as well.

“I may have found something,” Moran says. “Those idiots who attacked us. From what I’ve found, they’re working for one of Montalbán’s rivals.”

“So it could just be an ordinary assassination?”

“That’s what I thought, until I looked into the guy. He’s an idiot, but Montalbán’s death was carefully engineered. No way in hell he could have thought up that plan all by himself.”

“So if the main rival isn’t responsible…”

“Who is?” Moran drops his cigarette and grinds it out underneath his foot. “This could be Jim whispering a few choice suggestions in a willing party’s ears. It’s how he works – presence unknown but felt.”

“Which makes it difficult to research.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

They stay quiet for a moment. Then Moran turns on his heel, heading back. Sherlock follows behind him in silence. 

As they cross the plaza, they pass a gaggle of tourists, all armed with cameras. Sherlock side-eyes them warily, but he shouldn’t have worried; as soon as someone nearby raises their fancy Canon, Moran makes a neat swerve, keeping them out of frame.

“Do you reckon he left a sign, somewhere?” Moran asks. “If he’d been here? Deliberately, I mean, just to let me know I’m on the right track?”

“Independent of the search, you mean? Just in case? Seems risky.”

“Breadcrumbs. I know, but…”

“It’s possible, I suppose.” Sherlock frowns. “It would have to be something only you could make sense of, like the message in Lausanne. Is there anywhere in particular – ”

“ _Sherlock_?”

For a moment, the world seems to freeze. The voices of the milling tourists, the singing of the birds, the ringing of the church bells all fade, the world narrowing down to one wide-eyed pale face.

A face he recognises. A face he saw dozens of times before, at Mycroft’s side, quietly taking notes, observing. A face that belongs in a different place, a different _life_.

With a shock, the world floods back into action and sound. Sherlock takes a step back, then whirls, grabs Moran’s shoulder and pulls him along, hurrying him down an alleyway, another shout of _Sherlock_ following them.

“The fuck?” Moran hisses at him as they speed down a maze of alleys.

“Now that,” Sherlock says, panting, “was  _definitely_ one of Mycroft’s agents.”

“Shit.” Moran looks over his shoulder again. “What do we do?”

“Run, obviously. It won’t take her long to find out where we’re staying.”

They head around a corner and lean back against the wall, hiding in the shadows. Sherlock's heart is hammering against his chest, sweat running down his face.

“Still have time to get our things?” Moran asks softly.

“Think s- shush.”

Anthea runs past, looking around frantically. “Sherlock?” she yells again. As if expecting him to answer, trying to escape.

Meaning Mycroft doesn’t know about his situation.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut.

“Goddammit,” Moran mutters, somewhere close. “Just as we were getting somewhere…”

She’ll report back to Mycroft. He’ll know what his baby brother has been up to. Imagine his shock, his disappointment, his orders – he wouldn’t hesitate to try and drag Sherlock back to London, to another padded cell and –

“Sherlock?”

He opens his eyes again.

“We can deal with this,” Moran says, calmly.

Sherlock breathes out, slowly. Focusing.

Moran has got a point. With him working alongside Sherlock, there’s no chance any of Mycroft’s men can find them. Which is satisfying all of itself; _finally_ even Mycroft’s endless resources won’t be enough to get him what he wants.

“Sherlock? You good?” Moran asks, as he tucks his knife in the back of his waistband.

Sherlock looks at him. Serious, focused, and yet with a gleam in his eyes that Sherlock recognises, and it’s…

He made his choice.

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “I’m good.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next and final chapter shall normally be up sometime next week.


	10. Prague

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of warnings for this one, including explicit sex, dubious consent/negotiated non-consent (depending on how you interpret it), BDSM, bloodplay, bondage, suicidalness & general depression

Police stations are, it seems, universally constant.

He’s lost count of how many they’ve been in these last few months, but they all seem stubbornly, eerily similar. The Czech police headquarters they’re in now is no exception: teetering piles of papers on messy, dirty desks, whiteboards full of illegible scribbling, pictures tacked to walls, the half-eaten kebab in the bins… It fits the type to a T.

The policemen themselves are made from the same mould as well. Once or twice, there’s been one who seemed to possess a little bit of intelligence the others lack, but this one – judging by the suspicious squint in his eyes as he sees them approach – isn’t one of those.

Sebastian holds up his fake ID, Sherlock follows suit. The man’s piggy eyes stay on the ID’s for an insultingly long time. Then he growls, “ _Co chceš_?”

“Interpol,” Sebastian says as he tucks the ID back into his pocket, just in case this stupid fuck hadn’t gotten the message yet. “There was a case here that sparked our interest.”

The man rolls his eyes. “Jelínek, yes? That is why you are here? Stupid girl.”

Sebastian exchanges a look with Sherlock, who looks equally clueless. “I’m sorry?”

The policeman raises his eyebrows. “You don’t know?”

“Tell us about Jelínek,” Sherlock says, eyes focused on the man with an intensity he seems to find disconcerting.

“Journalist. She’s a – how do you say it? A pain in the ass.” He gives them a joyless grin. “Sees ghosts. Is obsessed with… what’s it, _zakrýt_ ,” he adds, with an irritated handwave.

“You were covering something up?” Sherlock asks sharply.

“She thought that, yes. Says there is something _strange_ about the case. Stupid girl.” He huffs. “There was nothing. She goes away again, does not apologise. There is nothing here. Just an accident.”

“We’d still like to see the file,” Sebastian says, letting his impatience bleed through.

The man rolls his eyes again and gets up laboriously, plodding off towards his private office.

 _Just an accident_.

Just a gas explosion in an apartment block, killing half a dozen inhabitants including one rather important figure in the Czech underground. Coincidence. Bad luck. That’s what everyone so far seems to think about the case, from the local plods down to the anti-terrorist branch of the national intelligence service.

Everyone except Sherlock, who for some reason seems convinced there’s foul play.

Sebastian shoots Sherlock glance, then has to hide an eyeroll. “Straighten your collar,” he says from the corner of his mouth.

“Why?”

“Bitemarks.”

Sherlock scowls but does tug at his collar, effectively hiding the fading red spots from view.

Sebastian idly casts his eye over the whiteboard, full of pictures and evidence concerning what seems to be a triple homicide. It’s messy, but he can already see the evidence pointing towards one of their suspects in particular; Sherlock probably solved it the second they were shown into the room.

“There.”

He looks up. The policeman thrusts a file at them. ”Thanks,” Sherlock says drily, taking the file.

“You are welcome,” he says, scowling. “But you will find nothing.”

“We’ll see,” Sherlock says, with a small smile. “Thank you for your cooperation. Coming?” he adds at Sebastian.

Sebastian follows him outside and they head out into the streets, back to their hotel. Sherlock seems to be retreating into his mind palace again, which leaves Sebastian no companionship but his own gloomy, depressing thoughts.

This is case number six now, and that’s not counting all the ones inbetween, where they left after one visit to the police or one look at a report, Sherlock deciding that there was nothing that suspicious after all. As far the others - the burglary in Istanbul, the disappearance in Moscow, the mass suicide in Dubrovnik – they all turned out to be nothing in the end. Days, sometimes even weeks of investigating, and the end result was always the same. Coincidence. Dumb luck.

But not even a trace of Jim’s diabolical intelligence. _Nowhere_.

The only time they actually came close was in Madrid, but that's been thoroughly burnt. Even if they did find a way to avoid Mycroft Holmes' myriad agents now swarming the place, the trail has gone cold by now, . Maybe if the evidence had been more convincing he'd risked it anyway, but even that had been nothing but a hunch, a lack of clear evidence rather than anything real...

So all in all, they've got nothing. Nothing but empty promises, disappointments. It seems naïve to expect anything else from –

Sherlock sighs, audibly.

“What?” Sebastian snaps.

“I can _hear_ you brooding. Can you stop it? It’s distracting.”

“I’m trying to be realistic here, that’s all,” Sebastian says, equally annoyed.

"This again?”

Sebastian shrugs and keeps quiet.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I can understand trying not to be optimistic,” he says as they cross the street. “But this is getting ridiculous.”

“You’re not getting even the tiniest bit disheartened by all this?” Sebastian asks sharply.

Sherlock looks over his shoulder at Sebastian. “What else could we do?”

Sebastian doesn’t reply.

“Exactly,” Sherlock says. “Now stop _sulking_. We’ve got a case, a lead, what more can we want?”

“A result?” Sebastian says sarcastically.

But Sherlock, already crossing the next street, doesn’t seem to hear him.

***

“ _Prosim_?”

Amazing how much fear and caution can hide in a single word.

Sebastian clears his throat. “Miss Jelinek? I wanted to talk to you about the Branik explosion.”

There’s a long, heavy silence.

“I know you have no reason to trust me,” Sebastian says carefully, “but all I want to know is if you’ve found something. Can we meet somewhere? Somewhere public, you name the place and time.”

“I don’t know who you are,” she says, in heavily accented English, “but whatever it is you are thinking of…”

“I think someone was behind it,” he says, exchanging a glance with Sherlock, who’s listening avidly. “That it wasn’t just accident.”

She laughs. “Yes, I did too, but I found nothing. Whoever you are, sir, I have nothing to offer you. I left this case behind a week ago. There is _nothing_.”

“Can you at least – ”

She disconnects.

Sebastian throws his phone onto the bed, irritated. “Useless.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says airily. “Isn’t _nothing_ exactly the type of evidence we’re looking for?”

Sebastian snorts and sits down. “She could be lying. She has a history of messing with things she shouldn’t, been threatened more than once. Maybe she does have something and she’s keeping quiet.”

“If she did have something, she would have brought it out already.” Sherlock points at one of Jelinek’s last articles, a big headline screaming about corruption in some kind of local election. “She isn’t someone to fear repercussions like that.”

“Still.” Sebastian leans forward and runs his hands over his face. “Chances are it _is_ just an accident.”

“Or the evidence is so cleverly hidden even a seasoned investigator disposed to distrust wouldn’t find a trace of foul play,” Sherlock points out. “And that would be exactly the case if Moriarty were really behind this.”

“It’s a far stretch, though, isn’t it?” He raises his head. “There’s nothing real here, nothing really promising…”

Sherlock tilts his head, eyebrows drawing down, as if he’s suddenly seeing Sebastian in a different light. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m just – ”

“You think you’re so desperate you’re starting to imagining traces everywhere, is that it?” Sherlock huffs. “Only human, I suppose.”

“Not that you would know,” Sebastian says sarcastically.

Sherlock gives him a mildly affronted look. “Your anxieties don’t particularly matter. If you are right and it is just a coincidence, we’ll investigate this, find nothing, and move on. And if we _do_ find something, well, then we're one step closer to what we're looking for. The most we lose here is time, and we have enough of that.”

“That’s remarkably _sensible_ of you,” Sebastian sneers.

“One of us has to be.” Sherlock narrows his eyes a little. “Are you all right? You’ve been awfully doubtful, lately.”

“I’m… Yeah, I know. Sorry.” He stands up and walks over to the window. “Think it’s starting to get to me, this whole…”

“This whole what?”

“Everything.” He stares outside. “I'm not used to this, you know. I'm used to following orders, doing what I'm told. Charting my own path like this is...”

“But you are following orders, in a way.”

“Whose, _yours_?” He  turns and smirks at Sherlock. “Don't overestimate yourself.”

“And Moriarty's, in a way,” Sherlock says, unperturbed. “He told you to find him, so that's what you're doing.”

“I know, I know. I'd just like a little bit more... I don't know. Guidance, I suppose.” He sighs and runs a hand over his face. “Do you mind if I go out for a bit? I need some fresh air.”

Sherlock nods, then says, smiling, “Don't run away.”

***

Prague is cold.

Their last few destinations have mostly been in Southern Europe, and the contrast is noticeable. The weather has started turning as well, summer giving way to autumn, masses of clouds watering down the sunshine until the entire world looks bleak and grey.

It fits his mood.

Sebastian grits his teeth, clenches his hands into fists. This is ridiculous. Sure, having doubts is natural, understandable, but sulking about it? It feels childish, simplistic. And yet he can't seem to stop himself.

He's never really had dark moods before. Moments of frustration, yeah, sure, temporary lapses, all those things, but never this prolonged, dragging hopelessness. And no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to shake it off. All his usual tricks - focusing on the now, thinking step by step, refusing to acknowledge anything beyond that - have started to fail, one by one. And all that's left...

He sighs, then rolls his eyes at himself. Dramatic bastard. 

He turns on his heel and heads back to the hotel. There's a market on a square a few streets away, where he stops to buy some grapes - they've been living off takeaway food for the last three days, while they were on the road, and his whole body is desperate for something not battered and deep fried.

He takes his purchase from the vendor and goes back to the hotel. The reception is empty apart from the receptionist, sitting behind her desk with her feet up on a chair. She barely glances at him when he passes her to go up the stairs. It's reassuring, 'cause the chances of her remembering either Sherlock or him are small. On the other hand, she won't hesitate to send up other men to their room, if they asked for it...

He's still frowning about that idea when he comes into their room. Sherlock is sprawling in one of the chairs, idly flipping his way through some report or other. He gives Sebastian a quick onceover when he comes in, then goes back to his papers.

“Got you some vitamins,” Sebastian says, throwing Sherlock the bag.

Sherlock catches deftly. “Feeling better?” 

“Marginally.” He sits down heavily in the other chair. “I'll really start feeling better when we have something concrete. Did you...”

“Nothing so far,” Sherlock says, dipping his hand into the bag. “The reports are mostly useless. I think I'd like to see the scene of crime myself, that might be a good starting point.”

“Why?” Sebastian asks. “There are plenty of pictures, aren't there?”

“They may have missed something,” Sherlock says around a mouthful of grapes. “You've read the reports, the incompetence practically drips from the pages. And if it really is Moriarty at work here, the devil will be in the detail.”

“Fine, let’s go then.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I want the place empty. At this time there will still be police hanging around, possibly even special branch…”

“So?” Sebastian raises his eyebrow. “If our ID’s can fool that inspector, they’ll be fine for whatever local plod is still hanging around.”

“Ye-es, but there will be cameras, on a place of interest. I’d rather not risk it.” Sherlock scrunches his nose. “Besides, I get nervous when people loom over me while I’m trying to work.”

“Is that a dig at me?” Sebastian asks lightly.

“No,” Sherlock says, and he actually looks surprised. “No, you’re not… you don’t bother me.”

“Nice to know.” He tilts his head back and closes his eyes. “Suppose I’ve got a lot of practice standing in the background being unobtrusive while the geniuses make their big deductions.”

The silence that follows sounds strangely tense. Sebastian cracks open one eye to find Sherlock looking at him a little oddly.

“What?” Sebastian asks.

“It’s… it’s a strange thought,” Sherlock says, thoughtfully. ”That I’m taking advantage of what Jim taught you.”

“Taking advantage?” Sebastian asks, eyebrows up.

Sherlock waves his hand, irritated. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, no, I know. It’s solid reasoning. I’ve had the same thought, actually.”

“That must be a first for you.” Sherlock dips his hand into the bag and manages, somehow, to chew arrogantly.

“A real comedian, you are.” Sebastian leans back in his chair, arms behind his head. “I've actually been trying to imagine how he'd react to this - all of this - for ages.”

“And?” Sherlock asks, and his tone is still bored and superior but there's something in those icy eyes that suddenly seems sharper.

“No idea, really. I can think of a million things he could do or say, and they're all equally likely. Although I’d be very surprised if he didn’t see the fun side of this.” He tilts his head, watching Sherlock closely. “Or pass up on the opportunity of a threesome.”

Sherlock chokes on his grape.

“’Course, he might want you just to himself,” he says as Sherlock doubles over, coughing. “Like I told you, he gets possessive. And it’d be true to character.”

“What?” Sherlock wheezes, eyes watering.

“He's got a sense of proprietary pride about you.”

“Proprietary - _what_?”

“Never wonder why you got out of so many risky adventures unscathed?” Sebastian crosses his arms, revelling in Sherlock’s utterly confused expression. “Sherlock Holmes is _his_. Everyone knows that by now. No one touches you on penalty of death, and by _touching_ I obviously mean – ”

“You mean he _protected_ me?” Sherlock asks, dumbfounded.

“Sort of, yeah. You can’t do the things you do without getting a few important people very interested in your sudden demise.” Sebastian grins. “But of course, everyone knew that there was only one person allowed close, and that’s Jim.”

“Right,” Sherlock says, looking disturbed.

“He _wants_ you, Sherlock. All for himself.”

“He had me,” Sherlock says, then blinks twice, the way he does when he accidentally said more than he planned to say.

“Excuse me?” 

“He - ” Sherlock hesitates, then shakes his head. “He had me, is what I meant. Right where he wanted me. On the edge. We both managed to escape that one, but…”

“No such luck next time?”

“Or a different kind of edge.” Sherlock frowns, deeply, arms crossed across his chest like he’s trying to protect himself from something.

No need to be a genius to know where his thoughts are straying to. Although it’s the first time it’s actually come out. Sebastian may have made the occasional jab at the idea of Jim and Sherlock together, but Sherlock always swerved around that.

Now, though…

“What you said, in Antwerp,” Sherlock says after a while. “You and me, the sex, it only works because you make it work. I doubt Moriarty would be as – as _courteous_ as you would be.”

“Well, no, obviously not.” Sebastian smirks. “He does something else.”

“But _what_?” Sherlock asks, clearly frustrated.

Sebastian sighs. “I told you before, I can’t really explain it. It’s just – it’s a control thing, that’s all. He takes it, completely.”

Sherlock sits up a little straighter, that focused hungry look on his face. “Like in a BDSM situation, yes?”

“Er… yes and no, I suppose. I’ve been with doms, once or twice. It never was…” He shakes his head, slowly. “They’re never perfect, and the moment they slip up you get something back. Some kind of leverage.”

“But Jim doesn’t slip up.”

“No.”

“Show me.”

Sebastian splutters. “ _What_?”

“Show me,” Sherlock says again, clear and intent.

“I – I can’t. I’ve never claimed to be anywhere near as good as him, you know I – ”

“But you’ve been close.” Sherlock leans forward even further. “You’ve seen it, felt it – you’re probably the only person who has. So show me. I’m aware it can’t be the actual thing, but you may manage something that resembles it, at least.”

“ _Why_?” Sebastian asks, baffled.

“Because it – ” Sherlock stops.

 _Because it scares me_ , Sebastian finishes, silently.

Sherlock looks away, avoiding Sebastian’s eyes. “It’s been… going through my mind for quite a while, now. Ever since you first mentioned you and him having sex, in fact. But I just can’t… I don’t have the raw data necessary, I can’t imagine – well, I can, but it’s woefully inadequate and I can’t do anything to better it and it’s – ” He stops, teeth gritted, face a picture of frustration.

“I can’t do what he does,” Sebastian says.

“I’m not used to this,” Sherlock mutters, apparently ignoring Sebastian. “Running through possible outcomes, predicting the way things will go, no matter what or where or how, but this… I _know_ about sex, but I can’t reconcile that with – ”

“I can’t do what he does,” Sebastian says, again, with more emphasis, and Sherlock stop speaking and looks up. “But I think I can manage something else. Something close to it, at any rate.”

“Really?” Sherlock says, eyes wide, attention focused wholly on Sebastian again.

He hesitates.

This whole thing seems like the definition of a bad idea. It’s been ages since he’s dommed for anyone but Jim, and he never was particularly good at. And with Sherlock’s background, Sherlock’s particularities and preferences… It's a fucking minefield.

And yet, something in him makes him say, “Yes.”

Sherlock breathes out heavily and falls back into his chair.

“But you’re sure this is what you want?” Sebastian asks.

“Yes.”

“I mean it. It isn’t like anyone we’ve done before.”

“I know. And I’m still sure.” Sherlock smiles, wryly. “About as much as I can be without knowing exactly what it is you intend.”

“It’s not going to be comfortable for you. Or in any way familiar, if it’s – ”

“I _know_ ,” Sherlock says impatiently. “I can handle it. And if I can’t, I’ll tell you to stop, and – ”

“Well, no,” Sebastian says. “That’s not how this works.”

There’s a long silence.

The look on Sherlock’s face is something else. Naked fear, more obvious than he’s ever seen before, but at the same time he’s never quite seen _that_ amount of desire on him either.

“You mean – ” Sherlock starts, voice cracking. He coughs. “You mean…”

“Once you’re in there’s no way out.” Sebastian shrugs, a little awkwardly. “That was the way it was with me, too. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. You wanted to know what the real thing is, well, this is it.”

“No way out.”

“No.”

Sherlock licks his lips. His eyes flick to the bed, then up and left, as he’s thinking.

Then, back to Sebastian’s face. “Yes.”

Sebastian takes a deep breath.

Then he snaps his fingers. “On the bed, clothes off.”

“What – ”

“ _Now_ , Sherlock,” and there must’ve been something of Jim in his voice there, because Sherlock goes pale and obeys without protesting.

Sebastian gets up and goes over to his bag, behind him the rustle of clothes and the creak of the bed.

“What are you – ”

“Shut up,” Sebastian snaps, as he roots through his bags. Then he comes back, crawls on the bed and looms over Sherlock, dangling the handcuffs from one hand.

Sherlock’s eyes flick nervously to them, then back to Sebastian’s face.

He doesn’t like handcuffs. It came up, at one point, and Sherlock’s _no_ had been very definite. Prison, or rehab, or Adler, or whatever other negative associations he has with cuffs; their discomfort outweigh the potential nice bits, and normally Sebastian wouldn’t dream of pushing. But, well, pushing is the whole point here, suddenly, isn’t it?

And that look in Sherlock’s eyes right now is more than just distaste.

“I don’t – ” Sherlock starts.

“No,” Sebastian says, simply.

Sherlock swallows.

Then he squares his jaw and raises his wrists to the bedpost.

Sebastian roughly grabs Sherlock’s forearms and locks the handcuffs around Sherlock’s wrists, without giving himself too much time for doubt. If he does, if he overthinks, if he starts hesitating now he’ll lose the upper hand and what Sherlock asked for, what he needs right now, would collapse at the first sign of weakness.

So he leans back, takes his knife from the back of his waistband and slashes a shallow cut across the top of Sherlock’s thigh, and while he’s still gasping from that he closes his fist around Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock goes absolutely still.

“What you need to understand,” Sebastian says softly, “is you’ve got no control here. You’re going to have to lie back and take whatever I decide to give. That’s how this works. So…”

“So?” Sherlock asks, in a strangely lazy tone.

“Do you want it?”

Sherlock looks at him for a while. His pupils have gone large, almost eclipsing the pale blue of his irises.

He nods.

Sebastian bends down and kisses him, hard, teeth digging down into the soft giving flesh. Sherlock makes a startled nose and moves as if he wants to pull away. Sebastian grabs a handful of hair and holds him forcefully down for a moment or two; then he lets go and drags his fingernails down the side of Sherlock’s neck, folding his fingers over his throat. The knife is still in his other hand, just an inch away from Sherlock’s cheek.

He can feel Sherlock’s heartbeat racing, the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows. It’s satisfying, to see him insecure like this, after weeks of having to deal with his constant arrogance, his fucking _condescendence,_ the little -

He stops himself, takes a deep breath, and re-examines that thought.

He needs to get his motives clear, right now. If this turns out to be his subconscious wanting revenge on Sherlock for not finding Jim, it’s going to turn ugly very soon, jeapordising everything they’ve been working for. But what else can it be? An excuse to ignore Sherlock’s carefully-set boundaries? An attempt to frighten him, after all the effort he poured into getting Sherlock at ease with everything sex-related?

He runs his fingertips down to Sherlock’s collarbones, mind working. There are instincts at play here, impulses he may have been suppressing for longer than he’s entirely comfortable admitting, but this isn’t, this _can’t_ be just about indulging that.

Sherlock opens his mouth, regaining some of his usual supercilious expression, and before Sebastian has fully realised what he’s doing he’s raised his hand and slapped Sherlock hard across the cheek.

Sherlock gapes, eyes wide –

And that’s it. Now there’s something he can focus on – not the act, but the effect, the mixture of shock and fear and desire and lust, all meshed together until it’s indistinguishable. And sure, he might not be as good at this as Jim, but he does know how to get to that point.

That’s what this has got to be about. Not what he’s feeling, but what Sherlock is feeling.

He sits back, feeling a little of the tension he didn’t even realise he held seep away.

Sherlock blinks rapidly. “What happened?” he asks. “You look – different.”

“Never you mind,” Sebastian says, calmly, then puts the point of the knife just beneath Sherlock’s jaw.

Sherlock goes very still.

“It’s what you’ve always had problems with, isn’t it?” Sebastian says, softly. “Giving in. Letting go. Accepting instead of fighting back. I’ve always given you time, but…” He smiles, and judging by Sherlock’s expression it isn’t a particularly reassuring smile. “There’s another way to deal with that.”

Sherlock swallows again.

Sebastian lifts the knife from his jugular and puts it back on Sherlock’s chest. He slowly increases the pressure, digging in the point until a bead of blood appears. Sherlock makes a small noise.

“Shush,” Sebastian says, as he starts dragging the knifepoint down, leaving a line of welling blood. Pain, the slow, deliberate, unescapable kind, and he can almost taste Sherlock’s subdued panic on the air. But this isn’t torture.

He bends down and licks the cut he’s just made, wide and wet. Sherlock shudders against him, and again as Sebastian moves up and bites lightly at Sherlock’s collarbone.

It’s a mix, that’s what this is supposed to be. Never too much pain to drawn out the rest, but the pain is part of it too, can’t be just shoved aside, ignored. There’s a balance that needs to be constantly watched, surveyed.

He moves up a little, nibbling carefully at Sherlock’s throat, thumb rubbing against the fresh cut. Sherlock is panting, and there’s a small tremble running through him – and he’s silent. That hardly ever happens anymore, these days.

He pulls off and shifts down the mattress. Sherlock’s eyes follow him intently. He’s rolling his shoulders back against the strain of the handcuffs, feet digging into the mattress a little. Fidgeting, as much as the bondage is allowing him.

This can’t be dragged out. Sherlock wouldn’t survive it - he would snap, go into genuine panic, dissociate, whatever the fuck it is he does when he can’t cope, but either way Sebastian can’t balance this out for more than maybe thirty minutes, tops, probably less. He isn’t Jim, and entire-night lasting sex marathons are very much beyond his capabilities here.

But at least this way Sherlock gets a taste of what it can be like.

Sebastian moves down and takes Sherlock’s cock – already half-hard – into his mouth. He puts effort into it, cycling through different tricks and paying attention to every sensitivity and preference he’s picked up over the last few months. A hint of teeth at the right time, long leisurely licks at the exposed head of Sherlock’s cock, his mouth sliding up and down at varying paces and by the time he takes Sherlock deep and swallows, he’s writhing like a fish on dry land.

He continues for a bit, one eye on Sherlock’s face, sucking hard – and pulling back just as Sherlock’s about to come. Without giving him any time to recover, Sebastian grabs the knife and cuts a deep line along the inside of Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock jolts and he makes a noise, half surprised yelp and half groan. Sebastian quickly moves up again, taking Sherlock’s throat and putting the tip of the knife against Sherlock’s stomach.

Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on the shiny silver point and for a few moment he seems to be trying to control his breathing, taking air from his chest instead of deeper, but then he evidently gives up, stomach moving up and down rapidly, skin touching the sharp point with each inhale.

Sebastian reaches up and slowly traces his fingers over Sherlock’s throat, collarbone, moving down in featherlight touches to his chest, sides, hips. Sherlock shivers more than once, ticklish as he is, but he still doesn’t look away from the knife balanced just below his sternum.

Sebastian carefully moves down the bed a little, keeping the knife steady where it is. He spits onto his fingers and forces three of them up Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock’s whole body goes tense in response.

Sebastian cocks his head, watching closely as he increases pressure on the knife, his fingers sliding slowly in and out. Sherlock’s shallow breathing goes even quicker, and his tremble has gone unstoppable now, and still his eyes are fixed on – no, surprise, he actually tore his gaze away to look up at Sebastian.

Sebastian smiles at him. He slowly drags the knife across Sherlock’s stomach, all the while still fingerfucking him, experimenting with angle and deepness until he’s found something that makes Sherlock’s cock twitch, and then he keeps doing that.

“Pl-” Sherlock chokes out, then stops, lips tightly together.

“Please?” Sebastian says, softly. “Please what?”

Sherlock briefly squeezes his eyes shut.

Sebastian puts the knife down, within arm’s reach, and gently traces the cuts on Sherlock’s torso.

“Please what, Sherlock?” he repeats, still soft.

Sherlock gives a tight shake of his head. He’s breathing in short sharp bursts now, as if he’s fighting something. Sebastian smiles again and runs his thumb gently over the cut on Sherlock’s inside thigh.

Then he bends down again and swallows around Sherlock’s cock, pulls back and sucks hard at the head, once, twice, and on the third time just as Sherlock’s leg muscles start going tight with impending orgasm he takes back the knife and slashes it across Sherlock’s abdomen.

Sherlock actually yells at that, the come spurting from his cock mingling with the lines of blood on his skin, his arms jerking uncontrollably against the restraints.

Sebastian gives him a moment, then reaches up and unlocks the handcuffs. Sherlock’s arms flop down bonelessly. His eyes are closed and his breathing is deep, raspy.

He looks like he’s been knocked out.

Sebastian gets up and goes to the bathroom to find a washcloth and some clean water – and, on second thought, splashes some water onto his own face.

He glances at the mirror. It’s quite a picture, his face flushed and hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

Hard work, taking someone apart like that. Odd, ‘cause he never saw Jim this exhausted, and compared to what they did together, this thing with Sherlock was child’s play.

Then again, he really isn’t Jim.

Sebastian gathers up his supplies, passes by his bag for the first-aid kit, and when he gets back to the bed Sherlock is already sitting up, even though he’s still looking seriously dazed.

He sits down on the side of the bed and runs the wet flannel over the cut on Sherlock’s leg. He hisses.

“Aftermath is always less fun, isn’t it,” Sebastian says with wry humour.

Sherlock groans. Sebastian grins and dips the tip of the flannel back into the water, turning it pink.

It’s odd, doing this for someone who’s genuinely helpless. He never bothered to do this kind of thing with others, and Jim, well, Jim is Jim even when off his head with happy hormones and bathing in his own blood.

Sherlock, on the other hand, is weak as a newborn puppy. And it’s not like he hasn’t had Sherlock vulnerable before, but this is… new, somehow. Or just more.

He glances up as he starts cleaning the other cuts. Sherlock is watching him, eyes lidded. Still too out of it to speak, but recovering rather admirably.

He wipes the cloth over the cut on Sherlock’s abdomen, then touches the skin next to it thoughtfully, gaging the seriousness.

“Bandage,” Sherlock croaks suddenly.

“Rejoined the land of the living?” Sebastian asks.

Sherlock closes his eyes again, as if the simple act of speaking already exhausted him, but the corner of his mouth is turned up in a small smile.

Sebastian shakes his head and gets the bandages and plasters, covering the cuts as well as he can.

“Did he do this?” Sherlock suddenly asks while Sebastian is taping up his leg.

“Well, yes. Obviously. What do you think he did, leave me to bleed out on his bed? Drop me anonymously at A&E?”

“It’s just…” He clears his throat. His eyes still look a little glazed. “It’s just that it’s hard to imagine him in a – a caring role.”

“Well, he gave his own slant to it, that I can tell you. But yes. He took care of me.” He straightens up. “There, that should do it. Drink some more water, and be careful when you get up, move slowly.”

Sherlock hums. He raises his hand and turns it, slowly stretching his fingers. His wrist is red, chafed by the handcuff. “And he did this to you,” he says, voice still a little hoarse.

“Yeah.”

Sherlock blinks up at him. He’s going heavy, slack – fainting? No, he’s still rather red in the face, and his pulse – when Sebastian checks it – is strong and regular . Simply drifting off, then.

“Rest,” Sebastian says, in what he hopes is a reassuring tone.

And it seems to work, because Sherlock’s eyes close, and after a moment or two his breath goes deep and slow.

***

 _He took care of me_.

He used too, yes. In his own, controlling, often sadistic way, but he did, and it felt _good_. Like the way things were supposed to be, after a lifetime of feeling like he didn’t belong. No matter how bad things got, he was secure in the knowledge that Jim had his back, that however anything turned out he’d be there at the end, getting him through, patching him up. Taking care of him.

Up until the rooftop at St Bart’s.

He idly prods his palm with the tie pin. Before he’d gotten that damned thing, he’d been in a dark place. Each safehouse turning out to be empty and abandoned had been a blow to his faith, but after Prague… There’d been no fifth place agreed on, no contingency plans after that. All their carefully worked out scenarios and probabilities, but they’d never thought Jim wouldn’t at least get to that fourth, final safehouse.

And there he'd stood, shocked and scared, in the empty, clearly abandoned crypt. Nothing had prepared him for this, for the sudden drop in his stomach, the cold sweat breaking out, the panic encroaching out of nowhere... He'd been so convinced he'd finally see Jim again, after all this time apart, and the disappointment at being proven wrong had nearly floored him.

For days, he'd hung around the church, checking in every now and then, poring over the CCTV footage of the surroundings in the hope of finding something. After that, he’d spent a few weeks in a drunken, miserable stupor, trying to ignore the only possible explanation for Jim’s prolonged absence. 

And then that tie pin had arrived on his doorstep and he hadn’t thought twice, hadn’t looked back, had just focused on that obvious cry for help. Everything had seemed so clear. Find Jim. Help him out.

He’d never thought it would take this fucking _long_.

A stab of pain makes him look down. Blood beads in the fleshy part of his hand just beneath his index finger. He clucks his tongue in irritation and dabs at the wound with his thumb. Tiny, already starting to close.

He sighs and puts the pin away. Somewhere near a bell tower tolls twelve. He looks around at the bed. Sherlock is still sleeping, his breathing deep and even.

Seems like a shame to wake him up now. On the other hand, he had said he wanted to investigate – and besides, if he’s got to stay alone with his thoughts for one more minute he’s going to go mad.

He goes over to the bed and shakes Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock blinks, eyes focusing slowly on Sebastian’s face. “Morning,” he says, voice raspy.

“Midnight, actually.”

“Wh – ah, right.” He sits up, slowly, wincing all the way. “I… may need a moment, though.”

“Take it easy.” Sebastian pours a glass of water and brings it over, watches Sherlock gulp it down greedily. “You did lose quite a bit of blood there.”

“Among other things,” Sherlock croaks. He runs a hand over his face, then winces and rolls his shoulder back. “Ow.”

“Don't whine, you'll be all right.” Sebastian gets up again.

“I know.” He winces again, then swings his legs off the bed. “Get my pants,” he says, a determined look on his face. “We've got a crime to investigate.”

“Yessir,” Sebastian says, then lobs a pair of boxers right into Sherlock's face.

***

The hotel, bang inside the tourist centre of Prague, is quite a walk away from the scene of crime. It takes a good forty minutes before they're in the right area, especially with Sherlock limping a little and needing to stop occasionally to sit down and catch his breath.

Maybe it would've been smarter to keep that little experiment for another time - but, well, nothing to do about that now.

Eventually they reach the right district. It’s a mostly residential area, far from the city centre’s all-night shops and clubs, and at this hour most people seem to be already in bed. It’s peaceful, calm, quiet.

A cat meows somewhere in the distance. A car door slams shut and makes him jump.

Quiet, yes, but if someone would want to take them out, they wouldn’t have the defence of a public now.

They take a left, leaving the already quiet street for an even quieter one. Sebastian shivers. He stretches and curls his fingers, trying to get the stiffness out of them. Sherlock notices, but doesn’t say anything.

“So,” Sebastian says after a few moments of walking in silence. “Have you considered where to go next if this turns out to be nothing?”

Sherlock sighs. “Can you please at least _try_ not to be so defeatist?”

“I said _if,_ not _when_ , for the record,” Sebastian says. “And I'm just trying to prepare for all eventualities, that's all.”

Sherlock gives him a gauging look. “There's a theft in a museum in Amsterdam that looks suspicious,” he says. “Might be worth checking out.”

“Right.”

They walk on in silence.

“You don't approve,” Sherlock says, after a moment, his voice cold.

“Not entirely, no. It's just...” He shrugs. “We’ve been all over Europe and found nothing, isn’t it time to start considering the alternatives?”

Sherlock glances at him. “You want to return to Italy.”

“I…” Sebastian blinks. “I hadn’t actually considered that. But yeah, maybe. I mean, their guard must be down by now, from what I’ve seen there’s basically a skeleton crew there now, four at most…”

“It’s an option,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. “Both to continue our work there and to find out a little more about whoever it is that set those men on us. We'd need a good plan of attack, though.”

“I should be able to work something out. Special forces, remember?” he adds, when he notices Sherlock's sceptical look. “I was literally trained for this kind of thing. Shouldn't be that hard if there's only four or five of them, even if you do insist on non-lethal violence.”

“I do,” Sherlock says. “As you full well know.”

“I'd hoped maybe you'd have come to your senses by now.”

“As long as we don't know more about them, we keep them alive,” Sherlock says firmly. “But let's at least take a look here before dismissing this case entirely, yes?” he adds, as they take a left.

A huge highrise comes up into full view.  It’s an old building, but still in remarkably good shape – apart, of course, from the massive explosion crater marring its fourth and fifth floors. It's an impressive sight, stark and apocalyptical.

“Cameras,” Sherlock says softly.

Sebastian nods and they stroll by, casually, until they’re out of view. Then they duck underneath the fence and head to the main entrance of the building.

“All right,” Sebastian says. “We need to - ”

“Oh please,” Sherlock interrupts him, rolling his eyes. “You think I haven’t done this before?”

“Don’t your police friends give you explicit permission to go in, usually?”

“Sometimes. Not all cases I work are led by people who like me.” He ducks under the police tape, grunting a little as he straightens up again. “I’ve probably done this more often than you, at any rate.”

“That sure about it?”

Sherlock gives him a look. “Aren’t you more used to creating crime scenes, than visiting them afterwards?”

“Depends,” he says, and leaves it that. Sherlock frowns at him in irritated puzzlement, then obviously dismisses him, pulling on a pair of latex gloves and opening the front door.

They make their way up the stairs to the fifth floor, Sherlock panting a little by the time they get there, and then go to the flat where their victim used to live. The door is still burnt off, making their entry unusually easy.

Sherlock sways as he enters, leaning weakly on the doorframe. Sebastian quickly reaches out to put a hand on Sherlock’s back. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says irritably, shaking Sebastian’s hand off. “Dizziness because of the blood loss, most likely. It’ll pass.”

“Sure, but tell me when you’re starting to see spots.”

Sherlock huffs and pushes past him into the apartment. Sebastian follows at a more sedate pace.

It’s very thoroughly burnt. Walls scorched and blackened, furniture fallen apart, plaster and brickwork broken open, showing the beams and rebar behind…

Sebastian runs his fingers over the windowsill. “Why an explosion? Out of all the ways to kill someone, this one is… well, loud.”

“Drama?” Sherlock suggests.

“Maybe.” He lifts his fingers, studies them. “Or hiding something.”

“Such as?”

“Don’t know. Documents? Drugs? Torture?”

“They examined the body,” Sherlock points out.

“Fire can erase a lot of surface damage.” He straightens up. “Where did the explosion originate?”

“The floor below, actually.”

Sebastian turns and raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Part of the reason why they assumed it was an accident. Anything else you want to see here?”

“No, show me where it started.”

They go down a floor and Sherlock leads him to another flat, a little closer to the back of the building. Sebastian follows him inside and to another room, which is in an even worse state than the apartment above.

Sherlock immediately strides to the window, running his fingers across the blackened window sill, then crouching down and checking the floor.

Sebastian slowly turns around, taking it all in. An explosion, not in the target’s room, to all intents and purposes a gas explosion, and even if they did have suspicions they can’t prove it because…

There’s something here that keeps scratching at his memories, demanding attention. He frowns, trying to force the memories to surface. Explosions are messy, that’s what Jim often said, despite his love for them. The problem with an explosion is that there are always traces, either of the fuel used to accelerate a fire or a detonation device, so if you want to stay unnoticed what you need is some way to hide –

Ah.

He scans the room again, this time with more purpose. In the far corner the wreckage of the TV still stands, remains of old DVD’s and an exploded DVD player surrounding it. He goes over and bends down, searching in the debris. Most of it is the kind of thing you’d expect here, melted-down remote controls, burnt DVD’s, but below all that…

He stares.

Then, with careful, reverent fingers, he brushes some of the ash away and picks up a little packet of wires, turning it carefully, studying it from all angles. He’s hardly an electrical engineer but this, this doesn’t fit, which means…

“Sherlock?” he says. His voice croaks.

“What?”

He straightens up and holds out the device. “What do you make of this?”

Sherlock carefully picks it out of Sebastian’s outstretched hand and holds it up to the light of the moon. “Just a transistor. An old-fashioned one, yes, but not – ” He stops.

“It’s not,” Sebastian says, excitement making his voice shake. “Is it.”

Sherlock slowly shakes his head, running his thumb over the metal, frowning deeply.

“Easy to miss,” Sebastian says.

Sherlock nods. “No one would look twice at the debris in this place. They would just see a set of wires from a TV, a radio, a laptop… Who would think to study that in detail?”

“Unless you already know of its existence.”

“A remote detonation device.”

“Jim’s design.”

Their eyes meet.

Sebastian grins. “He’s been here.”

***

It’s strange.

It’s not like he ever really lost faith. Despite all his doubts, his gradual loss of motivation, he never actually doubted that Jim was alive. It was only a matter of finding him, however difficult that might be; but he was, undoubtedly, out there.

And yet, having this tangible proof of his presence, knowing that he’s been here, that his fingers touched the wires in Sebastian’s hand right now…

He’s _alive_.

Sebastian tips his head back, lets out a long breath. Christ, it’s been too long. Having Jim close seems like a distant dream, a wish fulfilment fantasy. Too good to be true. But the hard evidence is here, right in his hands. Jim has been here. Jim designed this assassination.

They’re going to be together again.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asks.

Sebastian glances at him. “Yes. Obviously. Never been better.”

“You’ve been smiling for five minutes straight,” Sherlock says suspiciously.

“Yeah, so? I’m _happy_. Finally we’ve got some result – ”

“Told you you shouldn’t lose hope yet,” Sherlock says smugly.

“Yeah, well, point fucking taken.” He runs his hand through his hair, thinking. “So, what do we do now? How should we…Christ, I stopped thinking this far.”

“We treat this like any other case,” Sherlock says. “Investigate, find out who’s behind it, what the reason is – ”

“We _know_ who’s behind it,” Sebastian says.

“But did he do it for personal reasons? Was he paid by someone? Did he just do it randomly, because he needed entertainment? And _how_ exactly did he do it, where did he find his materials, did he interact with anyone…”

“What does it matter?” Sebastian says impatiently.

“It might give us a clue where he went off next,” Sherlock says. “Or what else do you want to do, hang around here and hope he finds you? Put an ad in the local newspaper? File a missing person’s report?”

“Yes, yes, I get the point. It’s just…” He glances at Sherlock. “He was _here_. You were right.”

Sherlock smiles, and Sebastian feels a grin taking over his own face again and he can’t fight it back, can’t keep it down.

_Jim was here._

“We need more data,” Sherlock says, and for all that he sounds businesslike, he can’t suppress his sense of triumph either; Christ, he’s almost glowing.

Sebastian shakes his head, trying to focus. “Data. Here, you mean?”

“We can go back to the hotel, check in your databases – ”

“No, I think I’ve got a better idea. Fresher information.” He turns on his heel. “Come on.”

He leads them back some way to the city centre. Gradually the streets come a little more alive, some young people out drinking, a few more shady characters hanging around with less salubrious purposes... He keeps an eye out for anyone truly suspicious, but so far everything seems to be safe.

Sherlock follows him in silence, and that smug, happy glow seems to fade as they get further away from the scene of crime.

For him, of course, this whole discovery is a mixed bag. He’s enough of an addict to be pleased about finally cracking the case, of course, but this isn’t just any old case. And what’s waiting for him at the end…

Even Sebastian can’t predict how Jim will react to Sherlock. But he saw plenty of evidence of Sherlock’s deep-seated fear of Jim earlier tonight. It’s only natural he’s apprehensive.

And honestly, he’d feel more sympathy for Sherlock if he wasn’t so goddammned _relieved_.

“Where are you taking us?” Sherlock asks after a while. They’ve reached one of the seedier parts of the city, no more tourists or kids around and the shops growing smaller, darker.

“The criminal underbelly, such as it is.”

“You’ve been here before, then?”

“Yeah.” He raises his eyebrow at Sherlock. “Surprised you didn’t know that.”

“What?”

“I was hiring the Golem.”

Sherlock blinks and looks at him. “That was you?”

“Well, _obviously_. I thought you’d realised that everything in that game was set up by – ”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock says impatiently. “But I didn’t realise – _you_ hired him? In person?”

“Yep. The Golem isn’t exactly the type of person you can find on the Darkweb. Part of why he’s so mythical, I suppose.”

“You tried to have me killed,” Sherlock says thoughtfully.

“Well, in Jim’s words: if you were that easy to kill, there wasn’t any point in you anyway. He tried to have me killed, too,” he adds, a little wistfully. “Several times, actually.”

“His form of courtship, is it?” Sherlock asks wryly.

“Well, you gotta admit it worked. On both of us.”

They turn the corner, getting off the road and ducking beneath a flyover. In the shadow of the bridge, a couple of kids are hanging around, eyeing them suspiciously.

Sebastian whistles and waves a wad of cash. The kids immediately straighten up.

“Are you sure about this?” Sherlock asks, under his breath. “They look about fifteen.”

“And what’s the average age of your homeless network again?” he shoots back.

“Thirty, actually. But mostly because of the three sixty-somethings in the group, so I see your point.” 

“Thought so.” Sebastian steps forward. “All right, my Czech is horrible so which of you is best at English?”

“We all are,” a girl says, jutting her chin forward. “What do you want?”

“A gas explosion about two weeks ago, in Branik, someone important got caught in the blast. What do you know about it?”

“Just an explosion,” the boy at her side says, a tad too quickly.

Sebastian counts off half of the cash and hands it over. The girl practically snatches it from his hand.

“Anything else?”

She tilts her head, grey eyes taking him in coolly. She’d been here the last time, too, a slip of a girl then, and not much bigger now. Maybe she remembers him.

“Hardware shop on Zahradní street,” she says, after a moment. “There’s a metal door below street level. You want explosion, you go there.” She pauses, eyes the rest of the money in his hands.

He rolls his eyes but hands it over. “Anything else?”

“Saw someone going in there, week or three ago. Making noise.” She grins, showing off stained teeth. “They always think they’re being quiet.”

“Don’t they just,” Sebastian says smoothly. “Thanks for the tip.”

She makes a contemptuous gesture and retreats back to the bridge, her little troupe following her.

“Is it him?” Sherlock asks quietly.

“Doubt it. He wouldn’t let himself be seen, especially not now. A lackey, maybe, someone sent to get the materials.”

“Worth checking out. You know the way?”

“Vaguely.” He chews the inside of his cheek. “It’s a serious walk, but I don’t really fancy getting a cab. Or public transport, for that matter.”

Sherlock shrugs. “More walking it is, then.”

***

The hardware shop is about as uninviting as can be, door rusted at the hinges, windows grimy, the few tools displayed in the shop display all old-fashioned or broken. The door beneath is practically invisible from street level, even more rusty and with a thick chain hanging across.

They exchange a look.

Sebastian goes down the small flight of stairs and looks around, then touches the chain. “Camera in the upper corner,” he says to Sherlock. “Well hidden. And the lock is open.”

“Do we knock?”

“I think we’ve been noticed already,” Sebastian says wryly. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another wad of cash, which he flashes discreetly before he puts it back. Sherlock comes down as well, eyes sliding to the camera and back again.

“And now?”

“We wait,” Sebastian says calmly.

About a minute or two later the door buzzes. Sebastian pushes the chain aside and goes in, Sherlock on his heels. The door falls closed behind them, leaving them in a darkened hallway.

Sebastian is just reaching for his phone when a tinny voice says “ _Wait there_.” A tannoy system.

“A little paranoid, isn’t he?” Sherlock remarks, amused.

“Wouldn’t you be, if you were a known seller in explosives?”

Another buzz, and the door in front of them opens, letting in the light. Sebastian goes in, finding himself in something that looks rather like an upscale jewelry store, except the glass locked cases don’t contain diamonds but wiring, timers, chemicals and dynamite.

“Don’t touch,” a voice comes from the corner. They turn and see a small, wizened man enter the room.

“Obviously not,” Sherlock says drily. “We’re here for information.”

“No information,” the man says quickly. “Only materials.”

“Depends on the price, I’m sure,” Sebastian says lazily. He strolls a little closer to the man, running his eyes over the cases. It’s impressive stuff, semtex, C-4…

“We have the money,” Sherlock says, from somewhere behind him.

And then he says something else but Sebastian doesn’t pay attention because, right there, in front of him…

“My partner will… Moran?”

He keeps staring, can’t tear his eyes away from the glass case in front of him and what’s in it, and what it means…

His face feels numb.

“It’s about the explosion in Braník.”

“No information, only material.”

“I’m sure we can come to some kind of – ”

“Where did you get this?” Sebastian asks.

There’s a silence, tense, quivering.

“No information, only mater – ”

“Where did you get this?” Sebastian repeats, pointing at the case.

“I’m not just gonna – ”

“ _W_ _here did you get this?”_ he roars into the guy’s face, who promptly backs away and almost trips over his feet. Sebastian advances on him but something stops him – Sherlock, pulling him back by the shoulder.

“I’d better answer if I were you,” Sherlock says calmly.

Sebastian bares his teeth at the man and he tries to back away again. “I – I – The design was sold to me, by e-mail, never knew who – ”

“When,” Sebastian says, voice ice-cold.

“F- four years ago?”

He abruptly turns and strides off, leaving the room and bursting back out into the streets. He stumbles, blindly, then moves towards open ground.

The bridge. He leans on the banister, his stomach churning. The wind brushes his face.

His hands are shaking.

The river sloshes beneath him, grey and cold, and for a moment, one mad desperate moment, he actually considers flinging himself down. What else is there to do, anyway?

“What are you…” Sherlock says, from somewhere close by.

“It isn’t him,” Sebastian says, and his voice doesn’t sound like his, like it’s coming from somewhere else, far, far away.

“He sold the design and someone else used his idea for the explosion in Branik, yes, I gathered. Are you…?”

Sebastian keeps staring at the grey waves. There’s a sour taste in his mouth.

So close. So damn close he could almost _feel_ Jim, and –

And it’s all a lie.

He squeezes his eyes shut and fights against the encroaching nausea.

“Moran.” Sherlock’s voice, sharp and annoyed. “Stop being dramatic. It’s only a minor setback.”

 “A _minor setback_?” he snarls.

“Like the ones we had before. A likely case turning out to be nothing special, so we move on to the next one.”

“We’re chasing ghosts.” Sebastian turns back to the river, in disgust. “Keeping ourselves busy, spinning this idea of him being out there…”

“You think he’s dead, then?”

Dead.

Christ, if he’s gone, if he’s actually fucking _gone_ …

But hasn’t he been gone for the last three years now? Sebastian can barely remember him – the idea of him, yes, but the sound of his voice, the feel of his touch, all the real details… It’s faded into nothing long ago.

He’s been lost to Sebastian for ages. Denying it doesn’t make it any less true.

“- traces of him. We can’t dismiss that possibility, now, can we?”

Sebastian blinks. Sherlock has been talking but the words have just passed through him, not registering.

“Moran?”

The tiny wound in the palm of his hand is aching.

“Let’s go back to the room,” Sherlock says. “Get some sleep, and then in the morning we can look into that theft I told you about.”

Sebastian looks up at him, throat dry.

“Or we can consider your idea to go to Italy,” Sherlock continues, frowning. “Assess the situation, see if the risks are worth it… Something like that. Yes?”

Sebastian keeps staring.

“Come on,” Sherlock says, pushing away from the banister. “Let’s get back to work.”

Sebastian follows him.

If only because he can’t think of anything else to do.

***

He doesn’t get much sleep, the rest of the night.

It’s like a dam has finally burst. Before, he never allowed himself to dwell on the possibility of Jim being dead. There was proof of him being alive, no proof of him being dead, and admitting the possibility of Jim being dead, being killed by someone, would mean he miscalculated somewhere, that someone else got an advantage of him. And that’s impossible. Jim is infallible.

Except he isn’t, really, is he?

He leans his head against the grimy window and stares out, unseeing, at the streets below.

Jim, shot by stray intelligence service agents, bleeding out in a alleyway somewhere. Jim, tortured to death by one of the crime bosses he’s crossed and insulted, dying alone and in agony. Jim, jumping off a building for real this time, his brilliant quicksilver mind finally turning on him…

He closes the curtain. His eye falls on the laptop and on impulse he opens it and calls up the images of Italy. The familiarity of it stings more than it soothes, only exacerbated by the strangers still prowling the domain. Three, no more, but backup probably only a phone call away.

On Jim’s property. His private place, somewhere he didn’t even let Sebastian know about. If he were alive, would he have _ever_ allowed that? Wouldn’t he have found a way to take revenge by now?

He closes the laptop again and starts pacing, images rushing in to fill the place where his thoughts were. Jim, lifeless on a morgue slab; Jim, resurfacing on a beach somewhere, body bloated and white –

\- Jim, gone, forever…

“Have you slept at all?”

He glances over his shoulder at Sherlock, sitting up bleary-eyed and tousle-haired in bed. “Possibly.”

Sherlock opens his mouth as if to speak, then shuts it again and gets out of bed in silence.

Sebastian gives him one look as he potters around - movements slow and stiff, some of the cuts still red but all of them healing - and then dismisses him again, going back to his thoughts.

Jim, laughing in the face of Mycroft’s agents just before they pepper his chest with gunshots – or, no, it wouldn’t ever come that far. Rather, Jim pressing a button as they raise their guns and all off them going up in a blast of fire.

No matter the way, the end result is all the same.

Wouldn’t Mycroft Holmes know, if Jim were dead? Then again, he isn’t even aware Jim survived in the first place. But if it came out in the open, if an eerily familiar corpse turned out somewhere, or if some arrogant twat started bragging about who he just killed…

He clenches his jaw, hands curling into fists. At least that thought gives him will to go on; specifically, to find out who is responsible for Jim’s death and exact slow, bloody revenge –

“Moran?”

He looks up. Sherlock is standing in the doorway, a piece of stale toast in his hand. He must’ve gone down for breakfast.

“We have a problem,” Sherlock says.

“No shit.”

“No, a different one.” He hands a note to Sebastian. He glances at it; coded gibberish, nothing of importance.

“And?” Sebastian says harshly.

“The owner of the hotel was told to hand this to me, and me alone. Was paid quite handsomely for it.”

“What’s it say?”

“A place, a time. An offer to help me escape. It’s Mycroft’s cypher.”

“So they still haven’t realised what you’re really doing here.”

“Presumably not.” He frowns. “Still, it means they’ve found out where we are, and if I don’t make an escape attempt, they might resort to more drastic measures.” He meets Sebastian’s eyes, expression expectant.

“And?”

“And we have to leave, obviously.” Sherlock glances over Sebastian’s shoulder at his screen. “Italy? If we’re careful about it, it might just work.” He goes over to the bag. “Let’s get our things and – _ow_.”

Sebastian tilts his head. “What?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, just…” Sherlock gestures at his arm, with a grimace. “Stiff muscles.”

“Are they that bad?”

“No, not really. You know what you’re doing. But it’s…” He winces again. “Distracting. Nevermind, I’ll find my focus. Grab the bags.”

Sebastian moves mostly on automatic, some part of his mind still entangled in revenge fantasies and morbid images. Then again, he’s been doing this so often it barely requires thought: packing the bags and erasing all traces of their stay from the room takes barely five minutes.

They leave by the back entrance, Sebastian following Sherlock’s lead.

It’s busy at this time of day, tourists swarming the streets in guide-led groups or in more independent duos. They try to blend in, portray an image of casual interest.

“Car?” Sebastian asks, trying to force his mind back into the present.

“Not here, people would notice and the centre isn’t easy to drive in anyway.” He takes a deep breath. “We have to make our way to the outskirts of the city.”

“Sure you’re up for that?”

“I…” Sherlock sets his jaw, then shakes his head. “You can always put me in a bus if I start to sway.”

They fall in line with the stream of tourists heading towards the bridge. Sebastian still feels… odd, disconnected, tired, but this, this he can do on autopilot. While most of his mind seems sunk into some deep gloomy bog, one active part focuses on the route, the people around them, potential risks and the environment and –

Hold on.

He takes a sudden left, towards a slightly less busy street. Sherlock almost doesn’t notice, and stumbles when he tries to catch up.

“This isn’t the shortest route,” Sherlock says.

“I know.” Sebastian glances up at a traffic mirror, and – yep. “We’re being followed.”

“Fuck.”

They pause at a window display, pretend to look inside. He can see Sherlock’s eyes scan the road behind them.

“Those aren’t Mycroft’s men,” Sherlock says quietly.

“I thought so too.”

“As long as we’re surrounded by people, we’re probably - ow.” He winces again, pressing his hand against his leg.

Sebastian takes Sherlock’s arm and guides him along. “You weren’t this bad last night.”

“Endorphine rush, compensating for the rest.” Sherlock shakes his head, irritated. “I’m fine, just make sure I don’t trip.”

“Will do.” He glances over his shoulder. “How do we solve this?”

“We… we need to lose them.”

“Any suggestions as to how?” Sebastian asks as they head towards Charles Bridge, acutely aware of the two men on their trail.

“I have an idea,” Sherlock says. “Give me your phone.”

As Sebastian lets go of Sherlock’s arm to reach for his phone, Sherlock staggers and almost trips over an uneven cobblestone.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Sebastian asks as he steadies Sherlock again.

“Do we have a choice? Your _phone_ , please.”

Sebastian swallows his misgivings and gives the phone to Sherlock, then continues to steer him forward, taking the busiest roads. Sherlock’s right; as long as there are enough people around, their pursuers won’t risk taking any drastic measures. On the other hand, there isn’t much chance of losing them either, in these wide, straight streets.

“We need to hurry,” Sherlock mutters. “Get a headstart, we have about two minutes…”

“For what?”

“You’ll see,” Sherlock says, a little breathless. “Now hurry.”

“Hurry _where_?”

“Left.”

He more drags than supports Sherlock along several streets, their pursuers struggling to keep pace without starting to run and looking suspicious, until they turn a corner into a street coming up straight to the river.

“Ah,” Sebastian says.

“Got it?” Sherlock asks smugly.

“Quick thinking.”

The boarding on the ferry is just about to close. Behind them, the pursuers have realised their plan and trying furiously to get close enough, but a big group of Japanese tourists are impeding their way.

Just as well. If this fails, they’ll end up enclosed on a small space with two people who quite possibly want them dead. Might just be the end, that.

Strange thought. Not as scary as it had been before…

Sherlock starts running. Sebastian follows on his heels and they sprint up the boat just as the personnel pulls in the gangway.

“Is he all right?” an attendant asks, looking at Sherlock, pale and sweaty and trembling.

“Fine,” Sebastian says hurriedly. “Weather got to him.”

The man glances at the watery sun, puzzled,  then shrugs as Sebastian quickly adds, “Two tickets, please.”

The ferry heads up the river and the attendant goes to do his tour of the deck. Sherlock turns, still leaning on Sebastian’s arm. On the mainland, the two men stare at them, full of frustration.

Sherlock gives them a mocking bow.

Sebastian rolls his eyes and pulls the melodramatic bastard along to the covered part of the ferry. “They’ll try to get on at the next stop.”

“They won’t get there in time,” Sherlock says, following along. He snags his arm back, takes a deep breath, then steadies himself. “We can get off at the third stop, it’s close to the main route. Take a car, head out into the country.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

“No, not yet, just the – the smaller roads…” Sherlock falters again and Sebastian grabs his arm, then lowers him onto a bench. He drops their bag on the deck and sits down next to Sherlock.

“How are you doing?” he asks.

“I – not that well. Light-headed.” Sherlock breathes in sharply through his nose. “And starting to ache. And – and thirsty.”

Sebastian stands up. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

“Thanks.” He leans forward, head lowered. Clever boy.

“Just in case,” Sebastian adds, in a low voice, “gun’s underneath my jacket in the bag, top layer.”

Sherlock gives him a dry, amused look from beneath sweaty dark curls.

***

The hotel they eventually end up in, in a town about forty miles away from Prague, is eerily alike to the one they’d been in after they fled Antwerp, down to the damp in the walls and the fake security camera at reception. A wayside hotel, not meant to be used for more than one night, and in most cases not more than a couple of hours.

It just seems to drive home the point that they haven't made any real progress since then.

Sherlock, meanwhile, seems to have recuperated. He spent most of the car ride napping, and as a consequence he's looking rather awake now, and a lot better than he had on the boat. He grabbed Sebastian's laptop out of the bag as soon as they were safe inside the room, and hasn't moved since, sitting cross-legged on the bed, computer on his lap showing the footage of Italy.  Probably already calculating their safest way in and the exact angle the cameras should point and the shoesize of the three men inside.

Sherlock puts aside the laptop  and stretches, leisurely. There’s still something of that boneless contentment in him that showed up after their little session, as if some kind of tension got cut away from him.

Lucky him.

Sebastian turns away from Sherlock, crossing his arms tightly. The same black morbid anger as before is still keeping its hold on his thoughts, but he can feel the despair bubbling underneath and it’s getting harder and harder to supress it. Like a bell, tolling its message over and over again.

_He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s –_

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asks, sounding more annoyed than worried.

“No.”

“I thought we went over this.” Sherlock runs his hand over his face. “Are you still being depressed?”

“Depressed?” He snorts. “No. I’m just trying to be realistic.”

Sherlock sighs, put-upon. “I told you before, Moriarty is a survivor, and giving up this search isn’t a viable option for either of us, so can you please stop your sulking and - ”

“You mean we’re both so obsessed with him we’re too blind to see the truth, that it?” Sebastian says.

“And what’s the clear, objective truth, then?” Sherlock asks sarcastically.

“That he’s dead.” Sebastian takes a deep breath. “That he died, somewhere in the last few months. If not, he would’ve found a way to contact me by now. But there’s nothing, radio silence, which means…”

“He’s lying low.”

“He’s _dead_ ,” Sebastian snaps. “And not wanting to accept that is childish idiocy.”

Sherlock gets up from the bed. “So you do want to give up?”

“Give up? I want to face the facts, that’s all. React like I’m supposed to – Christ, how he would mock me for being this stupidly _hopeful_. Maybe I just - ”

“Stop it.”

“- I just misinterpreted, maybe this so-called search was just a sign to get me off my arse, start working again. Keeping his memory alive, his work, and fuck knows I’ve been failing miserably at th-”

“ _Stop this_ ," Sherlock says sharply.

“Why?” he snarls. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? Whichever way you turn it, I’ve f- ” His voice breaks.

“You’ve failed him,” Sherlock says, and for all that it’s the exact thought that’s been haunting him for a while now, it still _hurts_. “Is that what you think?”

“Haven’t I?” he asks, a tad desperately. “Whatever it is he wanted me to do here, _running away for months_ ain’t it, is it?”

Sherlock shakes his head, irritated. “He left you a trail to follow, and that’s exactly what you’ve been doing. Are you really that – that _blinded_ by your emotions that you can’t see the obvious?”

“It’s delusional,” he snaps.

“It’s not,” Sherlock shoots back. “You used to see this – you’re doing exactly what he wants you to do. You _know this,_ and you’d see it again if you just stopped fucking pitying yourself and start thinking rationally again. Come _on_ , Sebastian, your pragmatism has always been one of the things I’ve admired about you, don’t give it up now.”

Sebastian opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“What?” Sherlock says, annoyed.

“ _Admire_?”

Sherlock snorts and turns away. “Don’t make too much of it.”

“I won’t.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “It’s… pragmatism, yeah, sure. I was so convinced I was acting the way I was supposed to, but… I’m not infallible.”

“But his knowledge of you is. And your faith in him – or, at least, it used to be.”

He has absolutely no response to that.

“Anyway,” Sherlock continues, “it doesn’t matter, does it?”

Sebastian blinks. “What?” 

“The only way you can know for sure if he's dead or alive is to find him. Without that, you can never be absolutely certain. Would you really stop looking for him as long as there still is a possibility, no matter how small, that he's out there?”

“I…”

He tries to say _yes_. He genuinely does. Imagines giving up here and now, going back to his network, manage it in his honour and then probably get shot or arrested at one point in the near future, but…

He digs his hand into his pocket, finds the tie pin, sticks the sharp end into the flesh of his thumb.

 _What if he's dead_. And what if he's not? What if Sebastian gives up looking for him while he's still out there, alive, waiting, relying on him... 

He shakes his head. As long as there is even the slightest chance, the idea of disappointing him is worse than anything else he can think of.

“I don’t know what to do,” he mutters, eyes squeezed shut. “I genuinely don’t – I don’t know what to do, what to think, what to _believe_...”

“Let’s – let’s just focus on what we know,” Sherlock says.

“Italy.”

“Italy.” Sherlock nods. “We need a plan of attack. You said there’s only three or four people around?”

“I…think so. Yeah, as far as I could see.”

“Hm. Well, if you don’t mind…” And, after a cautious, assessing look at Sebastian, Sherlock leans back into his chair, fingers steepled and eyes closed. Mind palace.

Sebastian watches him for a while.

Much to his surprise, he's feeling a bit better. The strangling panic that’s been preying on him ever since the weapons shop in Prague seems to have abated. All because of… what, Sherlock’s pep talk?

He frowns. When did this all happen? At which point did he stop seeing Sherlock as an annoying necessity or an amusing source of sadistic entertainment, when did he become a – someone to rely on?

A month or two again he'd been watching Sherlock continuously, ready for any attempt at escape. Now, the idea of Sherlock leaving the search, leaving _him_ behind is utterly laughable. And no matter how much he thinks about it, he can’t pinpoint the exact moment when that tipped over from one thing to the other.

At least he isn’t in this mess alone.

He rubs his face, then pulls the laptop towards him and opens the security footage. Like before, only three men seem to be on the terrain. They look relaxed, lazy. Lounging in one of the salons, feet on the sofa.

Sebastian clenches his jaw, then purposefully clicks away, scrolling instead through the footage of the other rooms.

The intruders, whoever they are, don’t seem to have touched anything. All of the images crossing his screen correspond to his memories of the place, down to the smallest details. The bedroom with its beautiful midnight-blue satin sheets, the library and its endless rows of books, the hallway with its massive painting of some mythological scene…

Right, he remembers that. Not just any mythological scene, not a Greek one as he’d thought when he first saw it, but an Irish one, Nuada with his silver hand.  He’d looked all over that painting for clues, hidden messages… They even studied it under UV-light once, but all they could find were two letters in the autograph, lined a bit heavier than the others. He zooms in on it, squints.

Significant at first sight, but nothing came of it. Two letters is too little to make up a code of any sort.

He zooms out again, looking at the whole picture. It’s beautifully painted, the light almost shining out of –

Wait.

_The whole picture._

Almost dreamlike, he takes his phone and opens up the notes and reference pictures he took while they were searching the manor. The library is first, plenty of books around with significant-seeming notes, and among them, Grimm’s fairy tales. It had drawn his attention from the start - Jim's favourite, the one he even referenced to Sherlock, it seemed obvious - and there had been an inscription in German on the first page, cryptic and strange. Sherlock and him had spent several hours trying to decode it because two of the letters seemed darker than the others, but they’d found nothing.

Two letters...

He continues, scrolling through the pictures. The bedroom, with its jewelry and its clothing and its pristine sheets embroidered with what he presumed to be the original owner’s initials; the attic, full of broken antiques and dusty furniture, one of them an old chest stuffed full of old children’s toys with another two letters carved into the bottom, childlike and rough; and then the kitchen, fancy silverware and an old whiskey decanter, beautifully decorated…

“Sherlock?” he says slowly.

“What?” Sherlock says irritably. He doesn’t like being interrupted when he’s in his happy space.

“Come here for a minute, will you?”

Sherlock sighs, put-upon, and comes over. His annoyed attitude disappears the second he realises what Sebastian’s been looking at, though.

“You found something?” Sherlock asks, carefully.

“Maybe.” He puts the pictures next to each other: the painting, the book, the sheets, the toy chest, the whisky decanter, an old vase they found in the shed and an engraved perfume bottle from the bathroom.

Sherlock's eyes skip over them and he folds his hands in front of his mouth, frowning deeply.

“Makes sense, doesn’t it,” Sebastian says slowly. “It isn’t just one room. That’s the problem. That was what we were missing. It isn’t one room, it’s the whole house. And it doesn’t make sense unless you put it all together.”

They both stare at the pictures in silence. It seems so obvious now, seven times two letters, a perfect little code.

“So, what's it say?” Sebastian asks.

“Let's find out.”

They simultaneously grab for pen and paper and start scribbling. “Any idea as to the order?” Sherlock asks.

“None. Importance? Frequency of visits? Run of the day? And what about the cipher?”

“There’s no hints – the same as before, maybe, the shift cipher in Lausanne?”

They puzzle away, Sebastian racking his brain in an attempt to make sense of the dancing letters, until suddenly Sherlock pushes his piece of paper in front of him. On it, there are several thirteen-digit numbers.

“GPS coordinates?” Sherlock suggests.

A terrible hope grabs Sebastian’s insides, squeezes until he’s got difficulty breathing.

“Look it up,” he croaks.

Sherlock gives him a look, then goes to get the laptop from the bedside table. “Got it narrowed down to five possible combinations,” he says as he brings up Google Maps and types in the first one. “The others are impossible.”

“Hurry, then.”

The first two both end up in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. The third one is – surprisingly – in London, which gives him a sharp stab of hope until he realises it points to Buckingham Palace, and even Jim wouldn’t be that arrogant.  The fourth one is another miss, somewhere on the North Pole, and the fifth and final –

“Somewhere in the Apennines,” Sherlock says as the map zooms in.

“Where? I think we have a cottage around there somewhere, a – ”

“I doubt it.” Sherlock shoves the laptop back. “It’s literally in the mountains. Too high up for anything residential, so unless he wants you to take up rock climbing…”

Sebastian opens his mouth, starts to say something, then comes up blank.

Somewhere along the last minute he got to his feet, can’t even remember when. Now he sits back down, heavily.

Nothing.

 _Nothing_.

“Are you all right?”

He’s shaking. His stomach is cramping like he needs to throw up, and every bit of his self-control is falling apart, and –

A touch on his arm. He opens his eyes, blearily focuses on Sherlock’s face.

“Get a grip,” Sherlock says, grabbing hold of Sebastian’s shoulder and giving him a squeeze.

Sebastian wordlessly shakes his head. Then, fingers digging into Sherlocks arms, he pitches forwards, forehead leaning against Sherlock’s shoulder. His breath shakes out of him in not-quite-sobs, something too big, too intense to name shaking him to his core, and all the while there’s this little litany of _failed him failed him failed –_

A hand pats his shoulder. He squeezes his eyes shut, fights back more tears, struggling desperately. So close, so fucking _close_ , for a moment he really dared to hope again but now it’s all nothing, nothing…

“ – not a coincidence, do you hear me?”

Sherlock has been talking. Sebastian swims his way through the pain and tries to focus on what he’s hearing.

“Buckingham Palace,” Sherlock says, enunciating clearly. “The chances of that showing up randomly are close to zero. It’s a sign, Sebastian, a code within a code. Do you hear me?”

He takes a deep breath, steadying. “A code?” he asks, voice hoarse, hopeful like a child.

“Yes, a code. The code we were meant to find. All we need to do now is decipher what he really meant and we can move on. All right? So can you stop…”

Sebastian blinks away some more tears. He’s still clinging to Sherlock’s arms, and a part of his t-shirt has gone wet.

“I'm not very good at comfort,” Sherlock says, awkwardly.

“Don't worry,” Sebastian says, voice cracking. “I'm not very good at accepting it anyways.”

He slowly lets go of Sherlock’s arms, straightens up.

It's not what he expected, Sherlock’s face. Disgust, maybe, or cruel satisfaction. Contempt. Not - whatever this is. Calm, accepting, something close to compassion.

“And actually,” Sebastian says, as he wipes away the tears from his cheeks, “you did pretty well as far as I’m considered."

Sherlock snorts and turns away a little. “I know what it's like,” he says. “That’s all. To miss someone. To want someone close again, just to see them, talk to them, have them near…”

“John?”

Sherlock hesitates, minutely. “Yes. Also. But that's done now.”

“So who - ”

Sherlock gives him a darkly amused, exasperated, tired look, and, oh.

“It's come that far, has it?” Sebastian asks.

“I think it's always been this far, right from the first time I saw him.” Sherlock tilts his head back. “It just took me this long to... Unlock it, I suppose.”

“Accept it for what it is.”

“You helped me see that.” He gives Sebastian a wry smile. “Not sure if I should actually be grateful for that.”

“You are, though.”

“Yes.” Sherlock looks at him. "Maybe it's a good thing we haven’t found him yet," he says. "What the hell will we do when we do find him, hm?"

"Hah. Fireworks, that's for sure." Sebastian sits down, head leaning on his hands. His body still feels oddly heavy from the crying.

“A code within a code." Sherlock says. He leans back onto his heels, eyes on something only he can see, skipping across his mental whiteboard. “The others were indirect, references only you would understand. Mag Mell for Sweden, the blueprints for Italy… Things that no one would be able to think of. It’s about what they make you think of, rather than any direct hint. So this one is just following the pattern. What we need to find out is what it means to _you_.”

“Buckingham Palace?” Sebastian blows out his cheeks. “All right, let me think… Palaces. Queens. Tourist traps.”

“Well-guarded places in big cities.”

“We went there once,” Sebastian says.

“What? Really?”

He smiles, tiredly. “Why not?”

“He’s a criminal,” Sherlock says slowly, disbelievingly.

“Known by name, not by face.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Casing the joint.”

“He was – ”

“No, not really. He just… fancied the idea of it, I suppose. The mental challenge. The _fuck you_ it entailed…” Sebastian shakes his head. “Don’t know if that’s supposed to be any kind of clue, though.”

“Anything else?”

He rubs his chin, thinking. “Well, I’ve been there too, obviously, before I met Jim.”

“What?” Sherlock whirls, staring at Sebastian again. “When?”

“When I got my medal.”

“You’ve got a _medal_?”

“Victoria Cross.” He raises his eyebrow. “You’re being awfully slow.”

“I just… didn’t expect your military career to be the kind that gets a medal.”

“Medals, plural.” He closes his eyes. “I’ve got loads. Valor and bravery in the face of mortal danger, all that. Which is true, really. They just didn’t realize my motives weren’t quite queen and country.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You’re… Nevermind. Do you think that’s what he wants you to think of? The medal?”

“Possibly.” He frowns. “It should be something other people don’t think of, at any rate. Buckingham Palace… You went there, didn’t you, when Adler was playing her grand game?”

“You think it’s connected to her somehow?”

“Maybe. I’d be surprised if she’s actually involved, though. She seemed genuinely surprised when I told her Jim was still alive.”

“They’ve worked together before.”

“Not when he was at a disadvantage. Right now he’d be dependent on her, and he’d rather die than let that happen.”

There’s a silence. Sebastian closes his eyes. A palace, where royalty lives.

_\- and honey, you should see me in a crown –_

“I know something we can try,” he says, slowly.

“Do you?”

“Yeah. It’s not… I mean, I can think of other options, this seems… far-fetched?” He opens his eyes again, rubs the bridge of his nose. “The other clues seemed so obvious, once I realised. This one’s just…”

“What is it?” Sherlock asks. He leans forward, eyes fixed on Sebastian's face.

“I’ve got this mental catalogue of places he’s used, safehouses, storage rooms. There’s one near a big castle. That might be it.”

“Where is it?”

“Er… Germany, I think. Bad Harzburg. Should be a couple of hours drive.”

“Then we start there,” Sherlock says decisively.

“You think that’s really it?”

“I don't have access to your associations," Sherlock says. "But if that's the first one you thought of... He knows you, you said it yourself. How far do you trust that?"

He takes a deep breath. “To the end of the world and back.”

"Well then.” Sherlock grins. “Let’s try Germany.”

***

The ride to Germany takes the better part of the rest of the day. They only stop once for food, and for the rest there's mostly silence, although it's not the awkward, tense kind of the early days. Not that it's completely relaxed - they're both too much aware of what's at stake here, what their destination means - but there's still an odd sense of calm. 

They've got something to focus on, now. Something  _real_.

It's past sunset when they finally reach the nature park near the castle. Sherlock has been dozing for the last hour or so, his renewed energy from the hotel once again depleted, although as they leave the highway and take a more hobbly road, he jolts, then blinks, sleepily.

“Almost there?” he asks, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Getting closer.”

Sherlock hums and straightens up, running his hand over his face. His hair is a mess, and Sebastian has to hide a smile as Sherlock squints into the mirror and tries to get the curls back into something resembling order. Then he leans back heavily into his seat, rubbing idly at his wrist.

It isn't the first time he's done that. Touching his wrist, his thigh, even his abdomen, in a way that seems less to be avoiding the pain rather than reminding himself of it, making it hurt again.

“Do you regret it?” Sebastian asks.

Sherlock blinks rapidly. “Regret what?”

“That,” Sebastian says, with a significant look at Sherlock’s chafed wrist.

“Ah. No, not really. It was an interesting experience.” He rubs at the healing wound. “I’m not in a hurry to repeat it anytime soon, though.”

“To be fair, it’s easier to cope if you’ve actually got time to recuperate after,” Sebastian says. “Instead of climbing five flours and giving chase to a pair of murderers, I mean.”

“I can imagine.” Sherlock sits up a little, looking out the windows as if he’s only now realizing where they are. “Is this a forest?”

“Nature park. The castle is a bit more north of here,” he adds.

Sherlock sits back in his seat, fingers drumming on his thigh. Nervous.

Logical, really, but for some reason Sebastian isn’t sharing that feeling. Maybe today was simply too much in terms of emotions, maybe he’s just gone numb now - although it doesn’t really feel like numbness. Quite the opposite, actually. He feels clear-headed, focused, like the outburst earlier was an abcess to be lanced and now he can finally move on without having poisonous shit in his bloodstream.

They turn right again, onto an even smaller road. Sherlock winces as his head hits the roof of the car, then his eyes widen when he notices the sign at the road.

“We're here,” Sebastian says softly.

There’s a small car park a few hundred yards away from the castle in question, completely abandoned. He parks and they get out, look around. It’s dark, no more sun left at this hour, and there are barely any streetlights around; all light seems to come from the near-full moon hanging above the treetops, making the shadows around them dance eerily.

There isn’t even a ticket office, or an explaining sign. There isn’t enough left of the castle for that, barely a ruin of a ruin.

“Is this it?” Sherlock asks, clearly underwhelmed.

“Not sure,” Sebastian says slowly. “I haven’t actually been here before. Hold on.”

“What? I thought you said – ”

“I know the place, yeah. But not because I’ve been here.” He gets out his phone and opens up the Satnav system. “It’s one of those things he made me memorise. Like the bike in Naples. Start at the castle, then follow a pre-calculated route.”

“Meaning if you’ve forgotten, we’re stuck,” Sherlock says, with biting sarcasm.

“I won’t have forgotten.” He closes his eyes, taps back into the corner of his memory he dedicated to this, then opens his eyes again. “Six hundred meters north.”

They go down the hillside, towards the village. The trees make way for open land, gardens and pasture, the pale light of the moon illuminating the swathes of grass.

He stops after the appropriate distance. They’ve come at a crossroads, the street forking in three different directions.

“Hm,” Sherlock says.

“Toldya.” He closes his eyes again, calls up the mental map of this place. “East. That’s…” He lifts his phone, checking the compass, then takes the left road. Sherlock follows at his elbow.

“You remember all this?” he asks, after a moment.

“I told you, he made me remember.” Sebastian smiles. “He had very convincing teaching methods.”

“I can imagine,” Sherlock says, with an ironic glance at his wrists. Not the least bit flustered.

A lot has changed since he first saw Sherlock freeze in shock at the mere mention of Jim and sex in the same sentence.

At the next intersection, he takes another left and starts counting under his breath. “Seventy-two and ri- shit.” He frowns at the building right in front of his nose.

“How long ago exactly did he give these instructions?” Sherlock asks behind him.

“A while back. Five years?” He glares at the building. It looks new.

“Maybe they built over the route,” Sherlock says.

“We can go ‘round, then.”

“Or you’ve forgotten.”

Sebastian turns his glare to Sherlock. “I won’t have – oh, wait.”

“What?”

“No, it’s fine, got it. It’s one-hundred thirty first, then seventy-two. Don’t panic.”

They continue down the road, Sherlock in sceptical silence. He can doubt all he wants, these lines are burnt into Sebastian’s memory the same way Jim’s initials are carved into his back. Remembering the directions isn’t the problem.

It’s the bit after.

“And one, two, third house on the right.” He stops in front of a house. “This should be it.”

They exchange a look.

The house is small, a little decrepit, blinds down and dusty. It looks like it’s been sold a decade or three ago and never inhabited since.

“You have a key?”

“No.” Sebastian takes out his lock picks and leans over to the lock. His hands are shaking a little; it takes effort to keep his grip steady.

The lock clicks open. They go in.

The place is empty. That, he can see in one glance, but before the hopelessness can creep up again he takes another good look, and…

There isn’t any dust.

He steps inside and runs his finger experimentally over the small table next to the door. It comes back clean.

“A cleaner?” Sherlock asks behind him.

“Doubt it.”

“Is this place protected like the others were?”

“No, not really. It’s just… neglected. The most you could get here is kids exploring, and I don’t see those doing any dusting...” As he talks, he goes to the fireplace. He crouches and touches the ashes.

Cold, yes. But it’s been used, recently.

He looks up at Sherlock.

“What are the chances of someone else intruding? Squatters, maybe?” Sherlock asks.

“Low.”

“You think he’s been here.”

“I do.” He straightens up turns around, slowly. “Not sure when, but…” He breathes in. "He's been here. Not that long ago, either. Not months – weeks. Days, even. We can find him.”

“We can find him,” Sherlock says, eyed glittering.

They go over the living room together, nothing illuminating their search other than the moonlight, falling in through the blinds, painting everything in stripes of light and darkness. The sofa, threadbare and creaking, doesn’t reveal anything, nor does the carpet, the empty bookcase or the big chest shoved into one corner, filled with scratchy blankets and smelling strongly of mothballs.

They move on to the open kitchen and go through the trouble of opening and searching all the cupboards, but there as well, nothing seems out of the ordinary. It isn’t until they reach the small, old-fashioned bathroom that something doesn’t quite ring true.

“Blood,” Sebastian says, softly, holding up a towel.

Sherlock takes it and squints at the barely-visible stain. “How old?”

“No idea exactly, but I’d say fairly recent.”

“Days, not months again,” Sherlock says. “That would fit.”

“Someone tried to scrub it out.” Sebastian takes back the towel and runs his thumb over the spot. Does this mean he got hurt? “Did you see any other traces of violence?”

“No, and this place would be difficult to clean completely,” Sherlock says, eyeing the wooden floor in the main rooms.

“Right.” He pushes past Sherlock into the small hallway and into the only other room in the tiny house.

There isn’t much. A smallish double bed, neatly made, a bedside table, and a wardrobe that creaks open at a touch, showing it to be empty.

Good. For one chilling second he actually suspected a corpse to fall out of it.

The bedside table is empty as well. Sebastian goes to his knees to check underneath the bed, just to be safe – nothing – then, feeling a little self-conscious, leans close to the sheets to smell.

When he straightens up, Sherlock raises his eyebrow at him. “And?”

“Soap.”

Sherlock frowns. “There isn’t a washing machine in this place, is there?”

“No, don’t think so. They must have been washed by hand.”

“To get more stains out?”

“Possibly.” Sebastian sits down on the bed, bounces thoughtfully. “There’s a lot to unpack here.”

“And yet, not.” Sherlock gives the wardrobe another suspicious look.

“He must’ve moved on, by now. Do you – ” He stops.

“What?”

“Well, we’ve not progressed according to schedule, are we? We lost months on another trace…”

“Or you gained months by including me in your search,” Sherlock points out. “Either way, he’ll have left another sign. It’s just a matter of finding it.”

“Right.”

“I’m going to take a look outside, see if there are any footprints or other traces.”

“You do that. I’ll stay here.”

Sherlock nods and goes out. Sebastian closes his eyes and lets out a long, controlled breath.

He’s been here.

It’s hard to believe, and to be honest, there is no hard evidence here, but… It _feels_ right.

Then again, so did Prague.

He idly dips his hand into his pocket and pulls out the tie pin. Tiny thing, really. A bit too small to hang that much hope on, really. And yet…

He presses it into the meat of his hand, the sharp pressure oddly reassuring.

After a moment, the door creaks open.

“Found something?” he asks, not looking up.

“No, nothing. This place is remarkably bland, actually.” Sherlock sits down next to him. “We're goingg to have to turn the house upside down a little more thoroughly. You’re sure you’ve got no particular memories about this?”

“Nothing that springs to mind.”

“It might still come.” His eyes fall to the pin in Sebastian’s hand. “Having doubts again?”

“No. No, not really.” Sebastian frowns. “I’m not ecstatic either, and I expected to be. I mean, this is something, right?” He looks up at Sherlock. “Something concrete?”

“Yes, definitely. But it’s not as obvious yet as Lausanne was, is it?”

“No. Still…” He pushes the pin into his thumb. “We’re where I’m supposed to be.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock stays quiet for a while, then asks, as if he can’t help himself, “What does it mean?”

“Hm?” Sebastian looks up, surprised.

Sherlock gestures. “The tie pin. Why is so important to you?”

“Oh. Sentimentality, I suppose.” Sebastian looks at the tiny silver head peaking at him. “I got him this at the first year anniversary of me living with him. He laughed at me for it. But he wore it all the same.”

“Why a fox?”

“Trickster symbolism. He’s always had a fondness for those.”

“I’m not surprised.”

He carefully puts it back on the bedside table, then settles back. He still feels odd, like there’s this subtle kind of tension, of energy, that refuses to let go of him. Adrenaline, in a subdued form. Its distracting.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asks.

“Yeah. Tired, though.”

“The rest of the search can wait 'till tomorrow,” Sherlock says decisively. “A few hours aren't going to make a difference at this point, and we both deserve some rest, I think.” 

Sebastian nods. Sherlock is sitting close, they’re thigh to thigh, and Sebastian can feel the warmth coming off him, smell the slightly stale scent of sweat.

“So let's go the bed,” Sherlock says, watching him rather closely.

“Yes,” Sebastian says. “Let's.” 

He grabs Sherlock’s neck and pulls him into a heated kiss. The intensity of it takes both of them by surprise, but it feels as if now he’s finally got something to focus his energy on, it’s all flowing out at once. It actually takes Sherlock a few moments before he reacts, kissing back hungrily, then suddenly getting his hands between them and pushing.

He lands on top of Sebastian, surprisingly heavy, elbows on either side of Sebastian’s head and knees pressing in against his hips. Sebastian groans, then rolls them around, trapping Sherlock’s wrists against the mattress. There’s a sound somewhere, a creak, the window opening maybe but Christ, he doesn’t fucking care right now, let the neighbours play voyeur if they want to.

He bends down and bites down on Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock rears up, moaning. He wraps his legs around Sebastian’s waist, pulling him closer. Sebastian reaches down, gropes Sherlock’s thigh, slides his hand up and –

“Well.”

No.

_No._

He pulls slowly away from Sherlock and looks up, and there in the doorway is –

It’s Jim.

It is, beyond a doubt, Jim. But it’s Jim like Sebastian has never seen him before. Haggard. Hollow-eyed. His eye is blackened and his clothes are stained and his hands are bruised, chafed and there’s a dirty blood-crusted bandage around his arm and –

And he’s fucking _here_.

“You two took your time.” He steps closer, eyes glittering, and beneath Sebastian Sherlock shivers so violently he can feel it all the way to his toes.

Sebastian opens his mouth, tries to think of something to say. Nothing comes.

“Now, tell me…” Jim says, taking another step, and he’s standing near the bed now, close enough to touch and he’s here he’s here he’s _here_.

Jim grins, wide.                                                      

“What have you boys been up to?” 

 

 

 

 


	11. Epilogue

Sherlock’s hands are hurting.

The handcuffs are slightly too tight around his wrist, digging into his tendons each time he curls his fingers and rubbing painfully against the still-healing skin, and the position of his arms is too wide, putting strain on his shoulders.

He tries to adjust, shift his legs to the other side. It doesn’t matter much. As long as his wrists are still chained to the bedposts, there is no way of being even remotely comfortable.

He closes his eyes, tips his head back against the back of the mattress, and tries not to think about the last time he was in handcuffs.

A loud groan comes from the other room, followed by a _thump_ that makes the door rattle in its hinges.

Sherlock cracks one eye open and glances at the clock. Over three hours they’ve been in there. Continuous groans and moans and yelling, the springs of the sofa squeaking rhythmically – by his estimation, they’re working their way towards orgasm number five, by now.

But far more worrying than the sex is the quiet murmur of conversation inbetween, too soft to understand.

Would they be talking about him?

It’s an unnerving thought, when he thinks about all the things he’s said to Moran, everything he opened up about in the course of the last few months, every secret and fear and hope he's shared. At the time it felt natural, but the thought of Moran dumping all that information straight into Moriarty’s lap…

The groaning intensifies. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, trying to lock it out, to stop himself from reacting. Just basic conditioning, Pavlov’s bloody dog, the sound of Moran’s noises linked exclusively to sexual gratification on his part –

But that doesn’t explain why it’s the sound of _Moriarty’s_ voice that seems to go straight to his cock.

There’s a hoarse shout, a loud grunt. That’ll be number five, then.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, then on impulse yells “ _are you done_?”

Silence.

Sudden, unnerving silence – they haven’t been silent in there since they closed and locked the door on Sherlock.

Fuck.

A few moments later he can hear a door opening and footsteps down the hallway. The lock clicks, and the door opens, and there is –

There is Moriarty. Wearing nothing but a pair of trousers, hanging loosely from his hips. He leans his shoulder against the doorframe, crosses his arms, and gives Sherlock a sharp smile. “Never heard of _waiting your turn_ , have you?”

***

Months of worrying, of doubting, of wrestling with his principles, shedding ethical objections like old skin, but at the end of it, he had been convinced that no matter what, when he would meet Moriarty again, he would not let himself be cowed. Even if Moriarty would somehow read Sherlock’s changed feelings from his face, even if his entire being would yearn to move closer, he would meet Moriarty with dignity. He owed it to himself.

Except he'd never expected that said first encounter would happen with his pants halfway down his thighs and another man on top of him.

So maybe it’s not surprising that when the moment finally came, the overwhelming emotion hadn’t been dignity but sheer bloody _panic_. It had been ugly, cowardly even – he’d wriggled out from underneath Moran, who had been still too stunned to move, and had dashed to the bedroom door, jeans caught around his thighs. Of course Moran had snapped out of it rather quickly and he had tackled Sherlock just as he’d reached the doorknob, and they’d ended up wrestling on the bedroom floor, Sherlock’s desperation giving him the edge he needed to beat Moran’s superior strength and skill. He’d almost won.

Almost.

Almost, except for the handcuffs suddenly appearing within Moran’s range, a high laugh somewhere far too close, and the next thing he knew he was chained to the foot-end of the bed, flushed, half-undressed, out of breath, and scared out of his mind of what was going to happen next.

_Nothing_ had happened next.

Moriarty had dragged along Moran into the hallway without another glance at Sherlock. They’d closed and looked the door behind them and, judging by the noises of creaking wood soon after, they hadn’t even made it to the sofa that first time.

And Sherlock had been left alone, nothing to keep him company but his thoughts and the enthusiastic noises coming from the living room.

That is, until now.

He swallows, and like before he’s hit with an overwhelming urge to _get away;_ it takes all of his self-control not to pull at the chains like a panicked feral animal.

“Sebastian’s been talking about you,” Moriarty says, his eyes intent on Sherlock’s face. There’s a bright red love bite on the juncture between his shoulder and neck, and despite the implications of it, it’s easier to look at that than to meet Moriarty’s predator’s gaze.

“Has he.”

“I never thought you would open up like that to anyone, but, well, he can be very persuasive, can’t he?”

“You trained him well, your _pet_ ,” Sherlock says, pouring into his voice all of the disdain and arrogance he really could have used three hours ago.

“I’ve put my work in, yes,” Moriarty says. “Then again, there was already some quite good rough material to start with.”

“You mustn’t be that satisfied with him, though.” Sherlock takes a breath, then forces himself to meet Moriarty’s eye. “Given that you abandoned him for three years.”

“Need must.” Moriarty smirks. “He doesn’t seem to mind it that much.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

“Tell that to the sofa,” Moriarty says lazily.

“Oh, _now,_ yes, obviously,” Sherlock says, watching Moriarty closely, “but you should’ve seen him – well, only just yesterday, as a matter of fact.”

Something flickers across Moriarty’s face, gone too quickly to read.

“But of course you didn't,” Sherlock adds.

“He does get sulky sometimes,” Moriarty says calmly. “But he knows better than to indulge it too much.”

“ _Sulk_ is not the word I’d use,” Sherlock says, “but maybe we should ask Sebastian’s opinion about it.”

“I don’t think he’s going to be able to form sentences for a while yet – _are you, Seb?”_ Moriarty adds, in a loud voice, leaning back into the hallway.

All the reply he gets is a tired groan.

“Think I may have gone a bit hard on him,” Moriarty says thoughtfully, and Sherlock’s stomach gives a little flip.

Dammit.

“Don’t worry, he recuperates quickly. Anyway…” Moriarty turns back to him and he pushes off the wall, hands in his pockets, strolling closer. “Apparently you’ve been fantasising about me,” he says, idly. “Is that true, Sherlock?”

“Natural curiosity.”

“Entirely objective?” Moriarty gives his crotch a pointed look.

Sherlock is still half-undressed. There’s no way of hiding the effect that _show_ in the other room had on him.

“Biochemistry,” he says. “Instincts.”

“Oh, c’mon, Sherlock, aren’t we over this by now?” Moriarty pulls a disappointed, condescending face. “I mean, sure, I’ll play along if that’s what you want, you the blushing virgin, me the ravishing rogue, but it seems a bit… childish.”

Sherlock shrugs. “You’re the one who likes to play pretend.”

“And you’re the one who likes it rough.”

He can’t suppress a tiny gasp at that, and triumph glitters in Moriarty’s eyes.

Damn Moran for spilling Sherlock’s secrets.

Moriarty walks closer, then steps over Sherlock hips, so he’s standing wide-legged over him, looking down with an almost fond expression.

“You want me,” he says.

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek.

“Of course I knew that,” Moriarty continues, “but I hadn’t expected this particular variation on it. But, given that it’s taken you months just to admit it to yourself…”

“You’ve got your man to thank for that,” Sherlock says, voice a little hoarse.

“Well done, Seb.” Moriarty smiles. “Finally breaking through all that repression. I mean, I did try, but there wasn’t much in way of reply, was there?”

“Did you?” Sherlock says, struggling to get back to his tone of superior boredom.

Moriarty frowns. “Oh, come on. You didn’t realise? The messages? The flirting? The _apple_?”

“ _Playing gay_ ,” Sherlock says, echoing Moriarty’s smug tone, the one that’s etched into his memories.

“ _Sherlock_.” Moriarty's face turns into a mocking mask of pity. “You really thought it was all just a game?”

“Everything’s a game to you.”

“True,” Moriarty says immediately, “but some are more fun than others.”

“And some contain more truth than others?”

“Something like that.” He tilts his head, then swings his leg back to Sherlock’s right side and crouches down, head level with Sherlock’s, leaning close. Not touching.

Sherlock stares fixedly ahead, mouth thin.

 “He’s told me all about you,” Moriarty says, sing-song, and he’s so close Sherlock can feel his warm breath on his cheek but they’re _still. Not. Touching._

“Everything you’ve done. What you like, what you don’t like.” A pause. “What you’re scared of.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, his mind nothing but an endless litany of curses.

“And the fun bit is – do you know?”

_Don’t listen. Don’t listen don’t listen don’t –_

“You can’t deny it anymore. Because you’re here. Because you went along with it, of your own free will, didn’t take a single chance to back up. You _chose_ this.”

Despite himself Sherlock opens his eyes again and turns his head.

They’re so close their noses are almost touching. Moriarty’s eyes are very very dark.

Moriarty gives him as smile.

And then his hand is in Sherlock’s hair and his mouth against Sherlock’s and they’re kissing, and –

He doesn’t have much to compare it to. To a few disappointing, sloppy teenaged experiences, and to Moran, of course, who kisses with the skill of decades, knowing exactly how to get the reaction he wants, but this isn’t, it’s different, it’s _more_ , and –

Moriarty bites down hard on his bottom lip. The taste of his blood fills his mouth and Moriarty’s tongue swipes over the cut and –

“I thought we’d agreed you’d call me over when the fun starts.”

Moriarty pulls back from the kiss, but doesn’t look away from Sherlock’s face. “I may have gotten carried away a little.”

Sherlock nervously turns away from Moriarty’s face – even though it feels a little like baring his throat to a ravenous tiger – and looks at Moran, standing in the doorway.

He looks…

Moran grins, spreads his arm wide and does a little turn. His back has become a mass of long scratches, some of them bleeding. His neck is covered in bruises of all intensity. More bruises on his thighs, his hips, his collarbones, and his mouth is a little torn at one edge, red, swollen.

“Able to walk again?” Moriarty asks.

“Just about.” Moran crosses the room, and his step is indeed a little wobbly, and when he reaches the bed he more collapses than sits down.

All because of –

Sherlock closes his eyes again and leans his head back, trying to regain control of his treacherous thoughts.

“I’m going to need a break, though,” Moran continues. “Fucking _Christ_ , I think I forgot how…”

“You didn’t,” Moriarty says, unconcerned. “You picked it all up again impressively quickly, considering what you’ve been doing the last years. Or should I say _who_ ,” he adds, with obvious amusement.

Sherlock breathes in slowly, out again. Anything to get a handle on this strange almost-panic curling in his chest.

But he jolts back when Moriarty’s fingers close around his wrist, just above the handcuffs.

“There’s really no need for those,” Sherlock says, in his best supercilious voice. “What do you think I’m going to do, run away?”

“I know you’re not,” Moriarty says, calm, completely unconcerned.

A cold shiver runs down Sherlock’s back.

Because that’s it. That’s the thing about Moriarty, the thing that keeps rattling him, that makes Moriarty haunt his nightmares. Not his unnerving intelligence, not his criminal history, not the constant threats, nothing of that – just the way he can see straight through Sherlock, know all the things he keeps inside, he hides, effortlessly, naturally, like it’s nothing he’s not seen before. Not even Mycroft has ever been that unerringly in control over Sherlock’s feelings, no one, _no one_ has ever treated him like that.

Moriarty knows him. Moriarty can see straight into the inner workings of Sherlock’s mind. And what he sees there fucking _amuses_ him.

He yanks his wrists hard again the cuffs, entirely instinctively. Moriarty laughs. “And there we go. That’s why the handcuffs are _necessary_ , Sherlock dear.”

He straightens up and goes to sit on the bed, behind Sherlock, outside of his line of sight. But he leans over the edge of the bed immediately and closes his hand loosely around Sherlock’s throat.

“Why?” Sherlock chokes out.

“Because it reminds you who’s in control here.” The mattress shifts and Moriarty leans further down, lips brushing Sherlock’s ear. “Small tip,” he whispers. “It isn’t you.”

Sherlock jerks away. Moriarty laughs again, then lets go of Sherlock’s throat and moves on the bed. Sherlock can’t see, can’t know what he’s up to, but then there’s the wet sound of kissing and a faint moan and the bed springs creaking, mattress moving…

No. They wouldn’t. Not with him here, they –

They absolutely would.

“You’re _disgusting_ ,” Sherlock snaps.

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself tha-mpgh” and Moran’s voice gets cut off by what’s unmistakably a kiss.

Sherlock curses and closes his eyes again. Not that it matters, he can’t see anything anyway, there’s only the auditory input, and the mattress moving behind him, and this isn’t going to be over quickly, not if they’ve already been going at it for three hours –

“I thought you needed a break,” Sherlock yells at them.

“Told you he recuperates quickly,” Moriarty replies, and that’s the last of the talking for quite a while after.

***

He’s desperately hard. His arse hurts, the carpet not doing much to make the wooden floor comfortable. His shoulders ache, getting worse every second.

They’ve been quiet for a while, now.

Behind him, someone gets off the bed. Sherlock stiffens up, but it’s only Moran, padding out of the bedroom. He’s limping a little.

“Dear boy.”

Sherlock blinks up, then turns his head back. He can’t see anything, but the voice sounds close - Moriarty must be lying on his stomach, stretched out, head just behind Sherlock.

“I did miss him,” Moriarty says, conversationally. “Do you know how difficult it was to find someone suitable? Normal people break so easily. But Sebastian… I can do _anything_ to him. And he loves every single second of it.”

Sherlock frowns. Something about that doesn’t make sense. Something Moran said, once…

But then Moriarty nips playfully at the sensitive top of Sherlock’s ear and the thoughts are gone again.

“A bit like you, in that way,” Moriarty says.

“How would you know?” Sherlock sneers.

“I intend to find out pretty soon.”

Sherlock curls his fingers into fists.

“I’m tempted to send your brother a picture of this scene, you know,” Moriarty muses. “Except the good old Iceman would never believe you’re here voluntarily.”

“To be fair, I _am_ chained up.”

“We both know that’s not what’s stopping you from leaving.” Moriarty shifts above him, moving a little closer. “What is, though? Curiosity? Plain old lust? Is that it, you just want a quick fuck and then you’ll run back to London with your tail between your legs?”

Sherlock smiles. “If you’re trying to shock me, you’re approximately four months too late.”

Moriarty laughs, then moves off the bed. He is still staying out of Sherlock’s field of vision – deliberately, no doubt about that – and Sherlock can see nothing but a quick movement of a hand, a brief flash of bare skin, fabric whooshing past.

Then Moriarty steps into view again, fully dressed. Except it’s a far cry from the pristine, perfectly-tailored suits Sherlock so painstakingly remembers. Moriarty’s shirt is still torn and the hem of his jeans is frayed, and there is still some dried blood stuck to his sleeve – it’s a shabby, dishevelled look to say the least.

The arrogantly sadistic expression on his face is still the same, though.

“It’s a shame I wasn’t there to see it,” Moriarty says, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed, looking at Sherlock like he’s a circus attraction. “Although you might’ve gotten a bit too distracted if I'd been actually there, I imagine.”

“Or I might have tried to kill you again.”

Moriarty clucks his tongue. “I pulled the trigger, Sherlock, don’t go taking credit for someone else’s achievements.”

“I can understand that you’d rather have been with us, though,” Sherlock continues. “You haven’t exactly been doing well on your own out there, have you?”

Another one of those micro-expressions flashes across Moriarty’s face, gone before he can analyse it, replaced by faked surprise. “What, this?” he asks, raising his blood-stained arm and looking down at it. “Contrary to what I may have implied before, I actually don’t really mind when things get a little rough.”

He gives Sherlock a sly look from underneath his eyebrows and once again Sherlock’s breath catches – _damn_ him, and damn him twice for noticing.

Moriarty drops his arm again and trails his eyes over Sherlock, lingering on his bared stomach, part of the bandaged cut visible through the open shirt. Sherlock struggles against the impulse to cover up – there’s no point, he can’t reach that far while he’s still in handcuffs anyway, but there’s something about Moriarty’s eyes that _stabs_.

Moriarty takes a step closer. “Does it still hurt?” he asks, voice low, hypnotic. “The wrists must sting, back in handcuffs after all that abuse. Although I’m willing to bet it’s the one on your stomach that you’re feeling the most. Vulnerable, isn’t it, so close to all the vital organs…”

“They’re healing,” Sherlock says, eyes fixed on Moriarty’s face.

“For now,” Moriarty says.

Sherlock shivers, violently – autonomous reactions again, giving away the game, leaving no room for deception or lies.

The corner of Moriarty’s mouth turns up, understated and mocking. “He did his best, Sebastian,” he says, taking another step closer. “I can see that. And he’s not half bad either. But…”

He takes another step closer and Sherlock has to strain his neck now to keep eye-contact, but looking away has become unthinkable.

“The real thing,” Moriarty says, softly, “is still something else.”

Sherlock swallows.

Moriarty crouches down in front of him, then puts his fingers underneath Sherlock’s chin, tilting it up. Sherlock shudders at the cold touch, not – pointedly embarrassingly _not_ – in disgust.

“Look at you,” Moriarty says, voice breathy, barely above a whisper. “You’re shaking with it.”

He turns his hand and runs the back of his fingers slowly over Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock shivers again, breath catching –

\- _he takes control, completely –_

And then a cough makes them both look up.

Moran is standing in the doorway, fully dressed as well. “I hate to interrupt,” he says, voice sardonic, “but we have company.”

Sherlock coughs, then sits up a little straighter, and Moriarty gets to his feet again. “How many?” he asks, suddenly businesslike and brusque.

“Three that I saw, armed, creeping around, thinking they’re sneaky. Are they yours?” Moran adds, glancing at Moriarty.

“Mine?” Moriarty says, sounding genuinely surprised. “No. Well, yes, in a way, I suppose. Did you really think I set armed men on you?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Moran says, unperturbed. “What do you mean, _yes in a way_?”

“They used to work for me.” Moriarty moves to the window, carefully. “But they got ideas above their station. They thought they could use me for information. I suppose they tried to catch you two as well?”

“Yeah, they did,” Moran says, sounding confused. “But, how did they…?”

“My face is known, now,” Moriarty says, looking outside. “That made things a tiny bit more complicated than I had anticipated.”

It’s – startling. The idea that Moriarty has made mistakes, that he miscalculated – that he is, in fact, just human. Terrifyingly clever and insightful and cruel but still, in the end, not a bogeyman, no fairy tale monster.

Just a man.

Moran clears his throat. “So I’m right in guessing their intentions aren’t exactly friendly?”

“They only want us alive because they want to squeeze information out of us before dumping the bodies,” Moriarty says absently.

“Right,” Moran says, going over to the bags.

“Where they the same men as the ones in Prague?” Sherlock asks. He tries to move, then gets brought up short by the handcuffs.

Moran gives Sherlock a quick look. “No, don’t think so, but one of them seems familiar.”

“From?”

“Berlin. I think.” Moran reaches into his pocket and crouches down next to Sherlock, reaching for his wrists.

“I remember him. Thank you,” he adds, as Moran unlocks the cuffs. He rotates his wrists, trying to get the blood flowing again. “If I can get a look at them…”

“Doubt it. It’s still dark outside, I only got a glimpse because one of them was stupid enough to cross a street light.”

“They’re at the front, not at the back of the house?”

“As far as I can see.”

“Back door, then.” Sherlock closes his eyes, runs through their earlier route. “There’s a grey Volkswagen parked in front of a house, one street away, number twenty-three, easily unlockable if you still have that strip of metal lying around. If we’re lucky we can get in the car and out of the village before our pursuers even realise we left the house.”

“And if we’re not?” Moran asks, voice pitched soft.

Sherlock opens his eyes. Moran is looking at him, seriously, hand on his gun.

Sherlock hesitates. All he has to go on is Moriarty’s word, and he could easily be lying. Those men could still be government agents, or another intelligence service, relatively innocent people simply doing their jobs, trying to bring Moriarty down. But…

Then why haven’t they found something before, in all the official databases? And why didn’t they try to make contact with Mycroft’s agents? Moriarty’s explanation actually makes the most sense: of course they wouldn’t shoot to kill, not if they thought Sherlock and Moran had valuable information concerning Moriarty’s whereabouts. But they wouldn’t hesitate to kill Sherlock as soon as he didn’t have any value to them anymore. Meaning…

He meets Moran’s eyes and nods. Moran gives him a small smile in return and tucks his gun in his waistband, then goes back to the bag.  Sherlock gets to his feet and stretches, getting the stiffness out of his back and shoulders, tipping his head back…

And finds Moriarty looking at him, a strange expression on his face. Almost like…

Surprise?

“Come on,” Moran snaps. “No time to dawdle.”

Sherlock zips up his jeans and takes the bag from Moran, then moves down the hallway to the back door. Moran takes up position left of the exit, sidearm raised, face calm, concentrated. Sherlock stands to the right, Moriarty following behind him – and for a moment it hits him again, the _reality_ of Moriarty, as a living breathing person next to him, close enough to touch. He glances at Moriarty but he’s looking at the door, expression an echo of Moran’s. Cool. Focused.

Sherlock breathes in and turns back to the door, and Moriarty’s arm brushes against him – _real alive real –_  

“Ready?” Moran asks.

Next to Sherlock, Moriarty nods, and Moran’s eyes move to him, and…

And for a moment the world seems to freeze as if awaiting his answer. Sherlock can see, feel, hear nothing but the three of them, gathered around the door and focused as one on the danger outside – a danger that suddenly feels far more real than the man currently standing behind him, tense with anticipation, shoulder resting lightly against Sherlock’s arm…

Then Sherlock grins.

“Let’s go.”                                                    

 

 

FIN

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OF COURSE THERE WAS GOING TO BE AN EPILOGUE HOW COULD I RESIST. 
> 
> Thanks for all the comments! They made my day, several times over. I hope you enjoyed and I humbly apologise for any frustration I may have caused ;)


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